Inspired
by me malum
Summary: One-shots inspired by my playlist, relationships orientated. Latest: Pure crack, featuring but not limited to: a human!AU police verse; a genderbended, female Prowl; a paperclip; an unforgetable first impression and a long suffering, but not-so-secretly in lust Jazz.
1. How You Remind Me

Hi- first one-shot, inspired by Nickelback, How You Remind Me. Featuring Jazz and Barricade, 2007verse. Angst, more than drama here. Hope you like it.

Edit- 17/5/2011- mostly cosmetic damage, added the odd word here and there so some bits I missed before now actually make sense. Let's face it, they were needed.

* * *

Pain. Instant, wrenching pain that he couldn't block if he tried.

It was nothing compared to the spark ache he'd been living with, for millennia now. And as he felt his wires and struts strain to stay connected, knowing he probably wouldn't survive, but he'd given the Autobots precious time to regroup, he was glad. The ache would stop. And the memories would finally let him be.

Jazz, first lieutenant of Optimus Prime's Autobot division, offlined his optics for the last time as Megatron tore him in half.

* * *

His spark was something that Barricade played little attention to. All it did was cloud the CPU and there was always the thrice damned ache that no firewall could block off like he did the rest of his emotions. It made him overly logical among his fellow decepticons, made him stick out from the general crowd. His consequential lack of battle lust often meant he was one of the last to the killing fields, be they on Cybertron, Earth or any unimportant speck in between; many of his comrades accused him of cowardice, but those who mattered knew the truth so he wasn't normally punished for it.

But the pain- _this_ pain- it broke through every wall he'd set up around his feelings. It tore down every defence and left him skidding to a halt on the highway. Horns blared and angry voices yelled at his holoform but Barricade ignored them in favour of sudden introspection.

Jazz was here. On Earth, in the very city he was travelling to. And by the feel of it, in great pain.

He set off once more, tires squealing as he picked up speed, pinpointing his mate's location as he drove. The battle was no longer his destination; all that mattered in his newly emotional state was getting to Jazz before it was too late, and the pain that he had cursed for millennia faded to black static.

* * *

Pain. Cold. Thirst. Warmth?

Pulses, soothing and warm. Slight stinging pain, but forgotten in the rush of sensation that followed the injection of energon directly into his lines. Spark fluttering, but slower and slower, regulating itself to the other that was pulsing softly.

The other was here. His spark was singing, and telling his CPU something to the effect of, _why didn't you get yourself torn in half sooner? It brought him back to you._

Unfortunately, that woke his recovering CPU up properly, and he onlined his optics in a hurry, furious that he should have to do so. He had been prepared, he was good and ready to go into the night. How dare this mech in particular take that choice from him?

It appeared the Mustang remembered something of their parting; there was a healthy space between the two of them. Almost excessive, Jazz would admit in the privacy of his mind. He trusted himself not to try and kill the other, when he was still feeling like so much slag. Of course, Barricade knew him better than any other mech alive. Some dark part of his processor wondered if the decepticon knew him better than he knew himself.

They sat (or stood, in Barricade's case) in silence for several minutes, before he couldn't take it anymore. "How dare ya?" Jazz hissed. The quiet sound carried easily across the room.

An elegant brow lifted. "How dare I?" he said. "Ah, yes. How dare I stop my bond mate from dying at the hands of a mech far larger and stronger than he is. How dare I even think to patch up his wounds, feed him back to strength. How dare I save your ungrateful spark, lover." A sardonic grin curved one side of his mouth.

The first indication he was in fact tied down was that he couldn't leap to his feet and tear Barricade's spark out. Frag it. The mech did still know him. All the while he was stuttering, trying to yell past the anger screwing up his vocals. "You! Ya jus'... I didn' ask for this! Ya can feel tha', at least!" Jazz finally got out.

Oh, could he feel that. The fury in his mate's spark was stereotypical of a decepticon, not an autobot. "Your anger shouldn't be with me, lover. But I suppose you can hardly yell at yourself, so go ahead, shout away at me if you can speak well enough around your rage." Barricade crossed his arms and sat back, waiting for the Solstice to tire himself out.

The reverse psychology was successful. Jazz held himself silent, refusing to do as he suggested.

"Then I'll have my say, if you don't mind?" Jazz glared in response. "I think a list, and some explanations are due first. Let's start with you, lover, and work our way forwards from there: you hate yourself for that glorious moment of weakness that started everything. You hate that you couldn't stop me defecting from the Autobots. You hate that you can't let me go, and that you would have mourned me all those years ago had you aimed a little higher. You hate your current existence because you couldn't stop me from saving you, and death seems preferable to owing me anything. And finally, you love to hate me, because beneath the hate, you love me still. Despite it all. Or is that because of it all? Could you love me if I were any other way, lover mine?" Barricade was on his feet by the end of his little speech but his voice never strayed from the conversational tone he had adopted. The words had been building up inside him for so long, it was hard to reign himself in again.

Jazz's gaze never wavered. He had stopped glaring when his bond mate's words struck too close to the truth to ignore, but now Barricade was faced with blue optics that looked like they might break down any second, or simply flood with the energon his pump so desperately needed.

And then it started. First one drop, then another, and a third from the other optic. And it wasn't Jazz who was crying.

Barricade looked away when he couldn't hold the other's gaze any longer. Intimately connected as they were, he felt the small surge of triumph from Jazz's spark, just as he had felt the pain when he was torn apart, the contentment when he was still offline, the fear and fury when he woke up, the anger and hate when he was yelling at Barricade and the worst feeling of the lot, the undeniable love that occupied the smallest corner of his consciousness, boxed up and closed off to his rational thought. Ironically enough, it reminded Barricade of that Jazz from before their bonding, who wouldn't admit to his love and was certainly disinclined to act on it, right up until he, then called Prowl, called him on it in a crowd of then-friends.

Jazz felt despair from Barricade, despair and sorrow and self-deprecation and bitterness. He refused to acknowledge the love that was always there, just like he had refused to when they were together and hadn't been blocking each other because of some argument or spat.

He smirked when his decepticon bond mate couldn't hold his optics, with him tied down and virtually helpless.

"Looks like your cube needs refilling," Barricade said suddenly. Jazz remembered the stinging sensation from his half-conscious moments, and noticed the needle and tube plugged into the main energon line in his arm. And thus, an opportunity, enough of one to ignore the obvious change of topic and potential unhealed wound that he could hurt the Mustang with.

So what did a special ops agent of either side do when they had to keep their captor's attention elsewhere? "Could ya feed it ta me, from the cube? I wanna get the line from ma arm, feels itchy." Jazz murmured, looking anywhere but at Barricade, playing the upset and bitter mech. His ploy worked, but not quite how he was expecting. Jazz's head shot up from his put on floor inspection when the other mech straddled his lap, energon cube in hand.

A part of their closeness was that Barricade always could tell when he was up to something. It hurt that the Pontiac refused to acknowledge it, and how close they could have been, should have been. He had to throw the other mech as off-balance as possible; he would not let the mech escape before they had talked. Barricade placed one arm around Jazz's shoulders, claws tickling the mech's audio. "Be careful what you say here, lover," he said softly in the other. "Especially when your spark says something else entirely."

And Jazz's spark was singing again, prompted by the closeness of his mate's spark, singing like the vocals he was granted his name for. Barricade's spark was singing with him, a descant melody that fit his as well as it had in the Golden Age...

With a rough jerk, Barricade used his free hand to disengage the IV line, and drag them both back to the present, away from the good, and painful memories.

Jazz turned his face so they were nose to nose. It made him feel at less of a disadvantage. "I have ya directly in ma sights. What else do I need ta be careful of?" He laughed in Barricade's face, only inches away. The whole situation was like something he could only have dreamed of, crazy as it was.

"Here," Barricade held up the cube, taking a small sip before offering it to his bond mate. "Drink up." The perceived order would rile Jazz up even more, hopefully.

Jazz drank slowly, never taking his optics off Barricade's face. To do so would be to fall into his game, whatever he was playing.

The cube was taken away. "Game, Jazz? _You_ were never a game to _me_." His stresses implied that the inverse, however, was true, and red optics bored into the Solstice's blue ones.

Jazz refused to shiver, and he sure as pit refused to ask for the rest of the cube, no matter how much he might have liked it. "Don' tell me ya gettin' no amusemen' from this. I can feel it when ya lie." He was ever defiant. And he had the needle of the IV in the lock to his statis cuffs. The situation was looking up, if he could keep his distraction going. Although truthfully, he was unsure of how much of the situation at that moment was of his own design.

Barricade sighed. It wasn't worth the torment of being this close to his mate again. He got up from the mech's lap, stating exactly what was on his CPU. "I can't understand how you know me, can read me so well, yet not know me and misunderstand everything." His tone had changed, and he hated that. It was now forlorn, lost; what about the righteous anger this mech could summon in him?

"An' I don' understand how ya can know me, know exactly what I'm capable of, an' leave a 'get outta gaol free' needle within ma reach." With a final click, his cuffs snapped open and Jazz sprang to his feet at last, in a defensive stance lest Barricade decide to beat him back into submission.

The Mustang felt the confusion coming off the smaller Solstice in waves when he didn't move, but for smiling. The amusement was fleeting to his spark-break, however; it was only one more sign on an ever-growing list that they were no longer right for each other. "How can you think I'd hurt you physically after everything I've done to put you back together?" Desperate to get the sadness out of his voice, he forced himself to smirk. "May I be as bold to say, how dare _you _think that of _me_?" Better.

The thought unspoken yet realised by both was that it would be exactly what Jazz would do were he in Barricade's position. It was the ironic crux of the matter: the 'lying' Decepticon in love with the 'noble' Autobot, and the Autobot who would kill the other if he could. Barricade had stayed away from Jazz since he had defected. He knew Jazz, after all. Love was nothing to duty.

It didn't hurt anymore, knowing that his bond mate would kill him if he saw him. Barricade knew he couldn't kill Jazz, or even fight him, even without his emotions getting in the way. That was the end of the matter as far as he was concerned. Stay out of the other's way, and the uncomfortable (and for him, possibly fatal) situation would never arise.

Except, Jazz had nearly killed himself standing up to Megatron. Had nearly died, with only Barricade's spark keeping him alive. How could Barricade let him go when he could have saved him? When his spark was telling him to never let the mech go? His spark railed at losing him whether to death or mutual hate, despite the logic of his CPU that knew they were no longer right for each other. Barricade shook his head. He would need to sort his emotions out again, when this was over.

"I would've let ya die," Jazz moaned, unintentionally echoing his bonded's thoughts. "Why can' ya let me die?" He leapt out of his stance suddenly, shoving aside Barricade's hasty block with one arm and clawing down the side of his face with the other. "I hate you!" he screamed.

Barricade grabbed Jazz's wrists and held them behind the silver mech's back, a sad parody of an embrace. It was deliberate; mental anguish and pain would grieve the Solstice far longer than anything else. He bent his head down to whisper in the other mech's audio, making it as personal as he could with them still being separate beings. "But I don't hate you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

The closeness was a mistake. Barricade couldn't, didn't want to stop himself before he brought their lips together as suddenly as Jazz had attacked him. The surprised noise was all the Solstice could make before he found himself being kissed by the mech who had broken his spark so long ago. He refused to return the affection, and it only took seconds for the Mustang gave up. He pulled back and looked down on Jazz from his greater height. Energon lines ran from his wound onto Jazz's helmet.

Barricade's expression had gone neutral. "Hm, lover. One day, maybe, if you keep acting as you do." He drew his hands up to Jazz's forearms and disabled his primary weaponry with a few clever twists of his fingers. Then he released his bond mate, and pushed him back across the room.

Jazz stumbled but kept his footing. "Maybe? Maybe what?" He circled his wrists, trying to ease the energon flow back into them.

That next smile wasn't sad, or loving, or even sardonic. Jazz guessed Barricade could sense his fear, and perversely hoped it amused him as much as the Mustang's weakness had amused Jazz earlier. He had to strain to hear Barricade's words; he spoke so quietly, as though it were a revelation.

"Maybe one day I'll hate you more than I love you. Maybe I'll hate you because I love you." He paused. "That would be a nice, how do the humans say, full circle, for us." He was tired of this conversation, of enduring the hatred from his bond mate, and went to leave, job done. Jazz was alive, and he could work on re-building his emotional barriers with his most hated question answered.

"But-" Jazz stopped himself before he said anything he'd regret. More than he regretted already, at least. "Ya jus' gonna leave like that?" His spark cried out what he wouldn't say, how could he just leave like that? After everything they'd done, and hadn't done, how could he walk away? What made him able to just walk out of the door when Jazz had to finish it somehow, needed a final ending to the sorry story of their life?

At the doorway, Barricade glanced back. His optics burned in the low light. "Oh, poor lover mine. Don't forget: I was always what you made me." It was the police cruiser's parting shot; he transformed and sped into the night.

Jazz was left speaking to an empty room. His tears fell, safe and unnoticed now the other was gone. "How can I?" He finally yelled to the bare walls, "When this is how you remind me?"


	2. Mysterious Ways

Hi again. This one's happier- fluff inspired by U2's Mysterious Ways, featuring G1 Hound and Mirage (and a peanut gallery). Romance as the main theme- I think the pairing's cute. Onwards for story.

Edit- 17/5/2011- cosmetic and minor damage again. Can't believe some of the sentences I've corrected in this.

* * *

The party was in full swing. There were notable -and usual- exceptions, but most of the crew was there. The centre of the rec room had been cleared to set up a dancing area, although only Jazz, Blaster and a few minibots had been thus far brave enough to use it.

Mirage thought it was a beautiful thing, to have a cloaking device. He could stand in his corner of the room, invisible (able to avoid making polite conversation with mechs he despised) and still be a part of the Ark's atmosphere for the night. It didn't matter that the next day he'd be the subject of several pointed comments about his anti-social tendencies. Considering how few mechs on the Ark he actually enjoyed making conversation with, the needling was worth it.

Another benefit that he'd never considered before, was that he didn't have to uphold any pre-conceived notions that the crew had about the Towers. This benefit could be partially blamed for his current actions. The other portions of culpability went to the (finally) decent selection of music that Blaster was playing, and the sub-standard high-grade that silenced the little voice in his head that normally told him, this is a bad idea.

As Mirage lifted his hands above his head and swayed to the song, he thanked Primus for oblivious Autobots, his invisibility cloak, and the relatively empty corner of the rec room, where he could dance to his spark's content without a care.

* * *

Hound sat with Trailbreaker and Bluestreak (and by extension, the Twins) and half-listened to them put down the Decepticons in light of the most recent battle. The main part of his attention was drawn by the silent figure in the far corner, who was acting in such a manner as Hound could only assume he thought he was undetectable. Which he would be, Hound supposed, to those with normal sensor arrays. But for the scout, it was a simple matter of changing the spectrum and Mirage stood out like Sunstreaker after a waxing.

Although to Hound, Mirage always stood out, grabbed his attention, made him want to stare but not want to be rude, made him- crazy. Simply put (in Spike's terms), Hound 'had it bad', for Mirage. He'd been unable (too unsure of himself) to do anything about it, and extracted the human's solemn promise that he'd say nothing.

"Hound?"

The jeep jerked back to the present. Why Mirage thought he had to hide was, to Hound's CPU, inexplicable; the mech was a fantastic dancer.

"Hound?"

He started and refocused his optics to the normal spectrum. Lines became much more distinct, but he could no longer see the spy.

"Sorry, I missed that," he covered smoothly. "What were you saying, TB?"

The strategist looked sceptical (maybe he wasn't as smooth as he hoped) but let it drop and repeated his question. Hound heard himself give some vague answer, his attention already returned to the figure in the corner.

* * *

When drunken to excess, high-grade has the unfortunate side-effect of having the drinker believe he can do anything. Mirage, luckily, hadn't drunk to excess since he was a youngling sneaking out to seedy clubs with his other high-society friends.

Mirage, unluckily, happened to be the object of the desire of a drunken scout.

Cloak on, he had not expected anyone to grab him from behind as he made his way back from the party to his quarters.

For his part, Hound hadn't expected to be acquainted with the floor in such a painful manner.

Mirage froze as he recognised the mech he'd just thrown to the floor. He then sighed, and knelt to help the obviously over-charged mech back up again.

"'Raj?" Hound slurred as he was pulled to his feet. Mirage faded back into sight to help the scout get his bearings.

Wait. How had the tracker known where he was?

Primus. Had he been able to see Mirage for the entire night?

The spy pushed away the unwelcome thought and slung a green arm over his shoulders. "Easy, Hound. Nice and gentle-like back to your berth now."

Hound, luckily, was one of the few mechs on the Ark whose presence Mirage could tolerate, even enjoy, most of the time. Consequently, he was helped back to his quarters and not left lying in the middle of the corridor for a scheming prankster (who was probably responsible for his condition; Mirage had seen the red twin handing out cubes of dubious origin) to find and do unmentionable things to- nobody had yet forgotten Ironhide's close encounter with an energon dispenser, faux fur and a plastic gun.

Red Alert had flat-out refused to show anyone the security footage (much to Sideswipe's disappointment).

Hound moaned, and brought his free hand to his head.

"Yes, Hound, you are going to hate yourself in the morning," Mirage stated quietly (he did have some respect for the hung-over CPU). "But provided you don't purge it back up over me, I'll help you lie down now."

"More'n I deserve. Thanks, 'Raj." The jolt when he'd been tossed had done wonders for his sobriety; he'd regained the use of his gyroscope, for one.

As per usual, being drunk made Hound very sleepy. He felt himself slump more and more as his quarters came closer. He didn't even question how Mirage knew his code and opened his door. He felt the berth beneath his back, and belatedly realised Mirage had been all but carrying him for the last few minutes, and had lowered him down. The spy then straightened, and turned as if to leave.

Hound couldn't let him go that easily.

Mirage was pulled back off balance as a black hand grabbed his wrist, and he stumbled to his knees by the berth. Hound was propped up on one elbow, and looked slightly uneasy.

"What's wrong? Don't try and tell me you'll be unable to sleep now." Mirage tried to joke, dispel the suddenly tense atmosphere, but Hound didn't relax.

The jeep leant in, and before Mirage could say anything else, placed his hand on Mirage's cheek and pressed his lips to the spy's. Moments passed, and Hound pulled back, searching Mirage's face for a reaction.

The noblemech couldn't process the moment properly. Had his friend actually just..?

Hound tried to say something, but his exhausted CPU chose that moment to crash on him. Before he could explain, or at the very least, apologise, he was deep in statis.

On autopilot, Mirage climbed to his feet, and returned to his own quarters. He had a lot to think about.

* * *

Hound onlined, and decided that it was a bad idea. His CPU was foggy and his processors were functioning at 75%. He briefly remembered the twins breaking out their 'special stash', but beyond that? Nothing.

Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself vertical and left for the rec room, and morning energon. Everything had to look better after the first cube of the day. Except the lights. They were bright enough to be bad any time of day. Or was that just the hangover?

He made it, still vertical, and collected a ration from the dispenser. Then, he gratefully sank into a couch next to Trailbreaker.

"Rough morning?" His friend asked, smirking.

Hound grunted and drained his cube in one gulp.

"I recall you doing that with something a little stronger last night," Trailbreaker continued, still smirking.

Hound ignored him, and sighed in relief, as his internal scans regained some semblance of normality in their results. He offlined his optics and basked in the warm feeling.

"Morning, Mirage. Didn't see you last night."

Hound turned his optics back on. _Way _to get his attention.

"Trailbreaker." The spy was always cordial. His gaze shifted. "Hound. I hope you had a... good evening."

What was there that made it seem like he was judging the scout, this morning?

Belatedly, he added his own greeting. "Morning, 'Raj."

"I wondered if I could have a word?" The spy paused. "In private?"

"Yes, sure." Hound waved at Trailbreaker and followed his friend to -Mirage's quarters? He couldn't remember being invited there before.

Mirage covered the keypad before entering the code, but Hound understood; his job made him naturally paranoid.

He entered the door at the spy's gesture, automatically sweeping the room for any hints about its owner. The desk was neat, with few personal items- another hang-up, Hound guessed. The shelves had a couple of music files; presents from Jazz, most likely- the two worked together, after all.

Hound turned and faced him. "So, what can I do for you?" He gazed at Mirage and for an instant, something flashed through his sensors- that face, so close to his own-

Mirage tilted his head slightly. "You don't remember a thing, do you?" He sounded half amused, but fully exasperated.

"Remember what?" Hound replied, still trying to shake free the elusive pictures and sensory data his CPU was finding in the murky depths of its capacity- a hand pressed to a soft cheek, his own hand-

"Anything beyond, and I'm guessing here, your third cube of high grade?"

Hound was mildly insulted. "I'll have you know I remember up until the twins brought in their own mix-" An image of Mirage dancing in his corner lodged in his processors, and Hound's vocaliser cut off as brought his hands to cover his optics. It was like a dam breaking, and with horror he remembered accosting, leaning on, and kissing his friend, and in particular the shock on Mirage's face when he did so.

"Yes? What do you remember?" Mirage sounded completely neutral. Hound slowly lowered his hands, feeling ashamed. "You gave me something to think about," the spy admitted quietly, shy now, avoiding the Jeep's gaze. "I have to ask if it was merely the high grade acting?" A ghost of a smile crept onto his face but he still wouldn't look directly at the Jeep.

Hound's shame was quickly disappearing. Far from rejection and disgust, Mirage was... accepting? Wanting, even? Why else would he be so concerned?

Hound caught Mirage's face between his palms. He looked the spy straight in the optic. "Definitely not the high grade," he murmured, and kissed the mech. Somewhat less surprised, Mirage responded eagerly, wrapping his arms around Hound's neck and stepping closer until they were chassis to chassis. Then Hound stopped thinking, and relied entirely on feeling.

Both he and Mirage could have stood there for hours, just kissing and touching, but regretfully the spy had to pull away. "I have a recon mission in fifteen minutes," he explained. "But I'll see you when I get back?"

"No question about it," Hound replied instantly. A bit of mischief lodged itself in his processor, and he couldn't stop himself from adding: "I can't wait to see you dance again, by the way. You really don't need to worry about the cloak- you're very good."

Mirage raised a delicate optic ridge, his expression cooling. That was the last Hound saw of him, before some quick sensor re-writing gave him a last glimpse of the spy as he was unceremoniously shoved out of Mirage's personal quarters.

Kicked out into the corridor, Hound could only muse that Mirage had a very cute way of looking annoyed. Even (and since it was unique to them, maybe _especially_) in the non-visible spectrum.


	3. The Other Side

Hey there. It's a bit shorter this time, sorry about that. Inspired by David Grey's, The Other Side. Nearly broke my heart the first time I heard it. Pairing is G1 Jazz/Soundwave. I blame the wonderful, 'The Romance That No One Saw Coming', for making me think of the pairing ('blame' is entirely the wrong word really, the story's very good). Genre: angst/romance. Cassette death, thus slight AU.

Edit- 17/5/2011- comsetic damages. Maybe 30 words longer at the end. SW hopefully less out of character (probably not, but at least I fixed up some of his dialogue). Jazz's ever-changing accent (as I type it) hopefully more standardised.

* * *

"Can't ya understand? I _love_ ya, damn it!"

Soundwave said nothing. Couldn't say anything. Though his features were impassive, his CPU was lost in turmoil. He had no idea when the infrequent meetings had become regular, from regular to a priority. Jazz continued to stare at him, waiting for the mech to say something, anything, in response to his spark-bearing.

"'Wave?" Jazz was trembling now, and it wasn't only from the infernal rain Earth enjoyed so frequently. "Please... tell me it ain't all one sided, all in my mind?"

The sight of Jazz, so... scared, almost, prompted Soundwave into moving. He took those two steps between them and wrapped the smaller saboteur in his embrace. He held Jazz to him, forcibly reminded of their first meeting when he'd been the broken one in need of comfort. Immediately after reawakening, he'd discovered that one of his cassettes, Ratbat, hadn't survived the long time in statis. From this, to scrounging a living on a new planet, to being thrown back into the world of mistrust that was Decepticon politics, he'd found himself in need of somewhere to break down, away from prying eyes.

Jazz felt Soundwave put his arms around him, and sighed in relief. He hadn't been sure what the other mech would do, after betraying Megatron like he had. Releasing the highest-ranking prisoner ever captured by Decepticons was worth a death warrant at least. It was made worse by the fact that Jazz was that officer, who had been so foolishly captured. He couldn't let Soundwave go back, only to be tortured and deactivated.

The telepath finally found something to say.

"Query: course of action?" Soundwave knew exactly what his punishment would be. He also knew that his creations, inside their compartment, and Jazz, in his arms, were the only ones who would be able to tell how afraid he was.

Jazz's reply was almost immediate. "Come with me! Ya can't go back now, I can't let ya go back, not if I'm goin' ta lose ya!"

"Clarification: course of action: defection?"

"Clarify this: I want an' need ya to come with me. I love ya, Soundwave. Please. Tell me you feel somethin' like it."

Visor to visor, it was hard to hide anything from each other. The telepath wanted to go, to run with Jazz no matter the destination. But...

:Opinion: desired.:

The sudden clamouring of voices in his mind made him wince internally.

:Don't think old Megs'll forgive this one. Maybe it'd be better.: Frenzy started.

:I can't see us being welcomed with open arms.: Buzzsaw was usually the naysayer.

:But we can offer information in return for asylum. The Autobots are honourable, for all their other faults.: Laserbeak was often the only one capable of talking her twin into, or out of, an idea.

:It'd be an adventure. New mechs to trick, prank and generally annoy the slag out of.: Rumble, unsurprisingly, appeared to ignore the gravity of the situation. For Soundwave, that said more than any length of speech. He only waited for his first-sparked's opinion.

For a long time, the quadruped was silent. :You love him too.: Was all Ravage would say, after much consideration.

:Thank you.: Soundwave said to all of his surviving creations.

Jazz was trying to imprint himself on Soundwave; if the mech refused, he would never be able to hold him again. Even as he tried to hold on, Soundwave was prying his hands away.

"Don't wanna let go," Jazz murmured.

"Situation: temporary."

Jazz looked up then, into his lover's face. "Ya mean..."

Soundwave removed his mask and gently brushed their lips together, telling the saboteur he loved him too.

"Affection: reciprocated."

Jazz smiled then, despite the rain, and began to pull Soundwave in the direction of the Ark. When the other mech resisted his efforts, he frowned.

"What's wrong?" And then, less certainly, "Ya're comin' with me, right?"

"Recommendation: arrive separately. Easier to explain."

As Jazz realised his plan, he nodded, and ducked in for one last kiss. "Alright. I'd better see ya soon." He'd transformed and started his engine, when he heard Soundwave's goodbye.

"Hidden status: temporary. Autobot Jazz: mine. Declaration: soon."

In car form, Jazz couldn't smile, but he certainly felt happier than he had in a while with his love's reassurance that he'd find him again quickly. He gunned his engine to make the journey all the quicker, and the time until they met again that much less.

Soundwave wasn't the only one with a 'declaration' to make, after all.


	4. Unstoppable

No romance, what happened? Actually, if you're inclined that way, there could be an undercurrent of Soundwave/Starscream here (I am so inclined). G1 again, from The Calling's 'Unstoppable'.

Edit- 17/5/2011- much needed re-writing and elaborating of interaction between the two. My god, I can't believe I _liked_ this one originally. Looking back, even I can tell my writing's improved over two (three?) years. Cosmetic damage also.

* * *

Starscream felt ready to explode. But he couldn't- it only resulted in a painful trip to Hook and had no effect on the reason for his frustration.

He did the next best thing. His thrusters came online and he blasted his way above the crowd of Decepticons who had come to watch the obligatory post-battle war between Megatron and his air commander. With a last scathing look, he transformed mid-air and shot into the distance, with a last warning to his trine mates, not to follow him.

As he flew, releasing some of that wonderful anger, Starscream told himself all of the reasons Megatron should be overthrown. Failing that, all of the reasons he should at least listen to his subordinates once in a while; it might result in them actually winning a battle every so often, rather than skulking back to the Nemesis with their plans shot to the Pit.

They could be unstoppable, if they listened to each other. If Megatron would consider that Starscream, being scientist as much as warrior, knew what he was talking about when it came to finding suitable energy sources, or that Soundwave, logical as he always was, had some inkling of what was likely to happen should the Decepticons attack that particular power station. Far be it for the two Decepticon officers to agree on anything, but on this topic, they could probably commiserate.

Hours later, Starscream felt his temper had subsided enough that he could safely return to the Nemesis without inducing grievous bodily harm- beyond that of what he would receive for flying off without orders, anyway. He landed on the platform and waited for the lift to arrive.

To his shock, he saw Soundwave beckon the air commander in, rather than a lower flunkie. Starscream thought he was slagged if Megatron was sending his most loyal to collect him.

His shock increased when the telepath spoke to him.

"Opinion: desired. Megatron: inept. Plan: necessary." Soundwave stared resolutely at the wall, but his voice was too loud for Starscream to ignore.

The seeker had frozen, down to the last flicker of expression in his faceplates. When it became apparent that Starscream was too confused to reply, Soundwave gave up his long-standing act and removed his facemask.

"I propose that we remove Megatron from command of the Decepticons, assuming joint command." Soundwave debated with himself how much to say, but the jet was being uncommonly dense. Starscream was usually far more perceptive. Knowing how incriminated he already was, the telepath decided there was nothing more condemning than what he'd already said. "With only one night of planning, we could be unstoppable."

It was risky to speak of treason in the open, but the whole conversation was a calculated risk: Starscream was first on a very short list of decepticons who wanted Megatron gone more than he wanted to ingratiate himself with their leader; one of few mechs who might listen and not betray the telepath.

Starscream's optics flickered as his CPU finally responded. "What of your loyalty to the mighty Megatron?" He asked. His processors were reeling; he couldn't think straight. Why him, why now, just plain _why_?

"My loyalty is to the cause, Starscream. What is one mech compared to that?" Soundwave glanced sidelong at the seeker. "It's something you shouldn't forget." The threat in his voice was transparent. "Think on my proposal. And let no one know."

The lift stopped with a jerk, startling Starscream a little, but fully re-awakening his processors.

The air commander had no doubts Soundwave would find out if he betrayed him, and deal with him accordingly before the telepath could be apprehended. It was his last lucid thought as Megatron, in self-righteous fury, bore down on him with his fusion cannon activated.

* * *

Starscream onlined under the tender mercies of Hook, the closest thing the Decepticons could call a medic.

"Megatron slagged you good," he grumbled. "Almost thought you'd offline before making it down here."

Starscream snorted. "What kind of great leader whittles down his own forces? Especially from his best fighters."

"Stop making a mess of my medbay. You're no longer in danger of dying on me." Every decepticon had long grown used to their SIC's tirades and schemes.

The seeker jumped off the berth and winced when his sides protested. It appeared that Megatron had turned the intensity of his fusion cannon up.

:There may not be another chance, Starscream. Don't you want more than this?:

In the empty corridor, Starscream only needed one guess as to who was talking to him. He considered what he'd heard yesterday, and what he'd experienced over the last few vorns. If they were caught, Soundwave would be subject to exactly the same as Starscream. It was less likely this was a set-up. But... if it was on Megatron's orders...

:Do not overestimate our leader's intelligence.:

Did Soundwave just insult Megatron? Because _that_ was in his normal character. :Nothing you're saying is convincing me that you're working on your own, rather than to offline a rival for good.:

Starscream jumped when Soundwave admitted that no, he was not on his own. :My cassettes are as always, with me. Would I risk them without due, honest cause?:

No. Soundwave never put his cassettes in direct danger. That didn't help his case, and Starscream told him so.

:Your logic is twisted:

:What logic?: Starscream smirked. Didn't Soundwave tell him that often enough, in his own manner?

:The logic in that, I would not put my cassettes in danger unless I truly believed in what I was doing. Believed it was the best way to go, and the least damaging in the long run. How long before our leader decides to seek other convenient targets, besides yourself?:

Hmm. Starscream felt the tension in his frame slowly uncoil as for the first time, he allowed himself to consider what results, with his ability and Soundwave's shock element, the idea could produce. He felt himself becoming more agreeable as he made it to his room. And well, he wasn't prone to thinking long on major decisions.

:One night. Then I'll see.:

:We'll see, Starscream. _We'll_ see. Come by my quarters at sunset. Then we'll plan... and tomorrow, we'll be unstoppable.:


	5. I Touch Myself

I can't believe I actually uploaded this one- minor crack, I believe is the term. And I have no knowledge of actual timelines from G1. But- it is my favourite pairing (Prowl/Jazz officially rocks) and I think I was slightly drunk myself when I thought of it. From there, well...

Inspired by The Divinyls, I Touch Myself, and that song isn't nearly as pervy as it sounds. Honest. Neither is this shot. Damn it.

Finally remembered to add a **disclaimer**- I own nothing- not the songs, nor the Transformers world(s) that I so love to play in.

Edit- 17/5/2011 (last one for the day, methinks, seeing as I need to sleep _sometime_ before 5 in the morning)- general padding out of phrases and descriptions, major suckage taken out, Prowl's speech made more normal and less like he had a stick up his... ahem. Cosmetics.

* * *

Jazz had finally had it. He wondered if it was the high-grade speaking, giving him 'Dutch courage' as the humans put it, but decided, somewhere in the murky, energon smothered depths of his processor that this had been a long time in coming. He'd tried subtle, coy, close friendship, always-there, even obviously caring and still Prowl had not realised just how much Jazz wanted him.

They'd been awake on Earth for near on five years and the Autobots were having a celebration to match. That it occurred at the same time as a decisive victory on the battle field was a coincidence.

That Prowl was instrumental in the victory was fantastic.

That Optimus had forbidden the tactician from working and blocked his access code to the Ark's computers as a 'reward' was, in Jazz's opinion, simply _spectacular_. Prowl was at the party and at least slightly relaxed by the happiness of his comrades around him. Tonight was the night.

He sauntered (creating an excuse for the not quite straight line he took) across the room and whispered to Blaster "Yo, Blaster. I need a favour."

The orange mech turned and without ceasing to play his music to the room, whispered back "What kind of favour?"

Jazz told him his plan, and the tape deck smirked. Tonight was going to be great.

Blaster quietened his music and addressed the room at large. "My mechs! My friends! To celebrate such a great victory, and of course the anniversary of our awakening, I give, for your entertainment: karaoke time!"

Jazz surveyed the room and overall, liked the reactions the announcement garnered. Okay, so most of the mechs here would hate themselves in the morning, but in their current state, karaoke sounded like the way to go. The twins, always up for a challenge, insisted on going first.

"I dedicate this song to my brother!" Sideswipe declared during his song's introduction. More than one mech was helpless laughing as the lyrics developed. "You're so vain... you probably think this song is about you!"

Sunstreaker, unfortunately, never took his chance on the stage due to the small brawl he and his twin took to the hallway when the song was finished.

Other mechs took his place, and the laughter continued as they collectively discovered that while he was one of the best fighters they had, Ironhide couldn't sing for a cube, and their Prime, surprisingly, could hold a note as well as the original singer of 'Mustang Sally'.

As the party wound down, Prowl noticed one conspicuous absence from the mechs who had performed onstage. "Jazz?" he asked; there was a momentary lull in the room's noise levels while Blaster called for the next song. "Why haven't you had a turn yet? After all the trouble I go through to make you turn your music off, I'd've thought you'd be eager to try this 'karaoke'"

Jazz grinned. His visor brightened with the expression.

_Finally, the moment had come_. "If yainsist, Prowler!" he replied cheerfully, and took the transformer-sized microphone from Blaster. "Ya know the song?" He checked.

"Go for it, man!" Blaster replied. He couldn't believe Jazz was going through with this. How much must the Porsche have drunk?

"At his insistence, I dedicate this song ta Prowler. Here goes," Jazz said the last bit more to himself than anyone else, hearing the drums and strings come in. "I love myself, I want you to love me..."

As he sang, he saw Prowl's expression change from shock, to surprise, to disbelief... to hope. Jazz sung his spark out, trying to make the mech understand that he meant every word.

The chorus faded out, and his audience began to cheer. No one had seriously doubted that Jazz would be a good singer, and anyone who didn't know how he felt about the SIC had to be blind. Now all they wanted to see was Prowl's reaction. They hoped it was worth waiting for.

Prowl got to his feet, and slowly made his way to the appointed stage, where Jazz stood watching him approach.

"I am... intrigued as to your choice of song," he said.

Jazz shrugged, his own hope shrinking. If Prowl still didn't realise, what could he do, short of-

Prowl grabbed the saboteur's shoulders, holding him an arm's length away. "Dare I hope, Jazz?" he whispered.

Jazz shivered and looked into his optics. "Don't hope, Prowl." He rose those few inches of space to whisper against the mech's lips. "Do." Jazz eliminated the space between them and pressed his lips against Prowl's. After some spark-stopping moments, Prowl reacted. His arms wound around Jazz's waist, pulling the mech closer, if possible. Jazz clung to him, needing the support as his CPU re-routed messages from his motor relays to inform himself that what he had wanted for so long was _finally _happening.

They were both completely oblivious to the cheers around them, until Blaster, the closest, yelled (to Prowl's embarrassment) "No one needs an enactment of the song! Get a room!".

Jazz merely smirked and grabbed the Datsun's hand, tugging him through the crowd and out of the door.

And by the time they reached his quarters, Prowl wasn't embarrassed any longer.


	6. Crazy Chick

Yes, it's Jazz/Prowl again. Completely unrelated to anything else I've written. Humour/romance, guest appearances from Blaster, minor appearances of nameless OCs and Prime. It's set early in the war, very pre-Earth (G1). The crew isn't nearly together yet, only some of them.

It's an overused plotline. But I hope it's slightly different to the norm? I had to write at least one of them.

And yes, it was inspired by _Charlotte Church_'s Crazy Chick. Hey, it makes me laugh.

Shout out to itsu-sual, Hot Rod's Girl, Starfire201, lokimademedoit, hecate-19, DreadfullBeautifulluv22, CuriousDreamWeaver and Citakar. You guys made my day (week, month...) with the various feedback.

Starfire201 raised a point; I was on Transfictions under the pen name, 'morningstar' however I've been unable to access the site for awhile now and decided to make another account here. I'm recovering my older files, but they're scattered all over the place. Hopefully I'll find the rest soon.

Onwards for fiction dose. Enjoy!

Edited 11/6/2012- cosmetics, some grammar.

* * *

Jazz looked around at his new surroundings and resisted the urge to run and hide. The base was a lot larger, and more populated than his previous posting. Added to that, he suddenly had a lot more responsibility.

He turned his, 'Oh, Primus help me!', look to Blaster, who was cheerfully showing him around. Seeing as they had been friends in the academy (despite Blaster's three extra years, and different specialty) he had requested the job personally.

His oh-so-kind friend merely laughed at his expression.

"Ya could at least wait 'til I'm outta the way," Jazz muttered, glaring behind his visor.

"But then you wouldn't know I'm laughing at you," Blaster countered. He held his empty hands up when Jazz growled.

"Most mechs don' wan' a spec. ops knowin' they're bein' laughed at. Especially recently promoted spec. ops who'll be sharin' their base for the immediate future, an' know where they recharge."

Blaster stopped laughing. "Point," he conceded. Then started again. He knew Jazz well enough that the threat wasn't serious. Well, seriously harming, anyway.

"So, we got the rec. room, what else is there?" Jazz asked.

"Well, this way," Blaster gestured, "is another route to the private quarters. The last door leads to the labs and scientists' offices."

"I still want ta see them; I need ta know every which way around the base." Jazz was determined to do a good job in his new position.

Blaster sighed well naturedly. "Follow me then."

* * *

Even though it was one of his most frequent wishes, Prowl suspected Primus would never actually give him a day of peace. Today just proved his point; he had Perceptor going on about some revolutionary invention in his audio and a meeting with the new officer in an hour. Neither of which were high on his list of things to enjoy.

Had it been the infamous Wheeljack, he would have been worried about the device lying in the scientist's arms. But Perceptor had a good record, with no major explosions. It should be safe enough. Now he had to convince their base medic the same, as the 'revolutionary muta-gen-some-other-medical-term' was supposed to be some great advance in reconstructive surgery.

He wondered if he could turn his audios off and still give the impression he was listening. It was worth a shot.

Perceptor didn't notice, in favour of rambling on. Nor did he notice the two mechs making their way down the corridor towards him.

* * *

"So the red one's a scientist?" Jazz wondered, as he caught sight of the other mechs in the corridor. "Perceptor, I believe was his designation?"

Blaster glanced up briefly and nodded. "Yeah. That's Percy- never let him talk about his job to you. The other mech's Prowl, the SIC- have you met him yet?"

Jazz looked at the black-and-white, and his attention was caught.

"Jazz?" Blaster wondered if his friend knew he was staring. Not that Prowl had noticed; he looked completely out of it.

"Huh?" Jazz finally looked away. "Ya were sayin'?"

Blaster smirked. "Actually, it was your turn for conversation," he drawled. "I wondered if you'd met our SIC yet? But don't worry, your expression said everything. Quite clearly." He would have blackmail for years from that moment.

But Jazz was ignoring him, gazing at his immediate superior. Thankfully, this Prowl wasn't the mech he had to report to. That could have made any advances unwelcome.

Blaster only laughed, shaking his head and appealing to the ceiling, 'Thank you for this moment. But why me, Primus?'

Jazz was staring so intently at Prowl that he'd completely forgotten about the scientist. Even Blaster's warning wasn't in enough time to stop him walking into the red mech.

"Jazz, optics front!"

"Wha-?"

"Ah!" A soft exclamation.

_Thunk._

_Crack._

And the unmistakeable sound of shattering glass.

Jazz sat up, hoping his aft wasn't actually dented. That would be inconvenient to fix. He looked at the scientist, who was in a similar position to him. "Er, hi? Sorry 'bout that, I wasn' payin' attention-"

"Perceptor, is your device meant to be doing that?" The cold voice cut across his apology, and the mechs on the floor looked up to see Prowl staring at the broken mess of parts and wires. The scientist didn't answer, staring at what had been the fruit of three months' work.

"Perceptor!" Blaster tried getting the mech's attention. The device started to whine. "Okay, I suggest evacuation of the corridor. Now!" Blaster shouted, even though it was only the four of them.

Prowl grabbed an arm and hauled the attached mech to his feet, noticing in passing that it was the new officer he was helping; Blaster already had Perceptor up and running. "Come on!" He muttered.

The ominous whine grew louder. Then, at the worst possible time, Jazz stumbled. Prowl lost his grip.

The device exploded.

There was no 'boom' sound. No fire, but the mechs hit the floor on instinct. Most of the energy was in fact composed of light; the corridor was lit up like nuclear fusion. The rest was in the projectiles flying in every direction, formerly components of the device.

Three of the mechs escaped serious injury, suffering only paint scuffs as they hit the floor.

The fourth, new resident in their base, was not so lucky. Jazz was on his back, spread eagled, with something sticking out of his chest armour. It looked suspiciously like the needle, or pointer, or whatever the frag it was that Perceptor had called it. Blaster couldn't care for the name of the thing. All he knew was that his friend was on the floor, and he wasn't moving.

* * *

"Urk..."

Jazz came online to what he thought he recognised as the medbay. His soft exhalation got the attention of the two mechs standing in the vicinity.

"Jazz! You're alive!"

"No, stay down, I'm not completely satisfied with your readouts."

His friend and his medic (he assumed) stood on either side of his berth, looking down. Jazz tried to move, but felt the restraints at his wrists catch. That made him arch an optic ridge at Blaster.

"What?" The orange mech was clueless.

Jazz pointedly looked down at his wrist, then back up at the mech.

"Oh! Yeah, med-bot here wasn't quite sure what was wrong with you. I tried to tell him, but-"

His voice faded out to static as Jazz had a double-take, and looked down again.

Well. _That _wasn't there before.

"Blaster," Jazz spoke for the first time. "What in the name o' Primus did that thin' do ta me?"

He was now sporting a chest. Not that he didn't have one prior to the incident, but Jazz didn't remember it being quite so... prominent. And was his voice different? "Do I sound the same ta ya?" He asked, a rising note of hysteria in his voice.

This time Blaster gave _him_ a look. "Actually, yes. Now you're just being paranoid. But, well, how d'you like it?" No need to ask what 'it' was. Jazz had worked it out for himself.

"Paranoid? I've been turned inta a femme, and ya're callin' me paranoid? What kinda mech could've predicted this?" His vocaliser was giving him warnings of imminent short-out, if he didn't stop using the high-pitched yell. "Jus' tell me it's reversible!"

The medic, who had watched proceedings with interest, spoke up. "I must sincerely apologise, sir. Your... condition... is unprecedented, and as such we have no remedy at this point in time." He turned to Blaster. "It seems I must apologise to you also, for not believing you when you said he wasn't normally a femme." With this, the medic turned and went to occupy himself in his office.

"What 'bout ma restraints?" Jazz yelled after his retreating back.

"Oh, why me?" Blaster muttered, before hitting the release button. Jazz was up like a shot, about to make a break for it. Right until he fell flat on his face.

"Frag! What gives?" It hurt.

"Yes, Primus." Blaster sighed, watching Jazz trying to get his balance back with his new form. "Why, in all the survivors of the Pit, did you choose me?"

* * *

Finally, Jazz was able to walk. The medic had come out once, given him a datapad detailing the main differences between his new frame and his old, and told him "No active duty for a week. Medic's orders."

That would go over like- well, a mech in a femme's body. He couldn't wait to tell his superiors.

His comm. pinged. Speaking of... the universe was playing with him. Blaster was wrong, this wasn't paranoia. This was foresight.

:Jazz, the meeting is about to begin. Are you still able to attend, or shall we postpone it?:

:No, I'll be there soon, sir.: Better to get this over with. It didn't seem like they even knew what had happened. Did the medic not have to give reports?

Playing a popular funeral song from his speakers, Jazz slouched his way to the Prime's office. He ignored the looks he got on the way.

Finding the correct door wasn't difficult. Inputting the correct code was, dare he think it, easy. Facing down his superiors in his current frame- that was where his _flee while you can!_ instinct was kicking in. Especially when with that look on his faceplate, the Prime was going to say something horribly embarrassing.

"Sorry ma'am, but are you lost?"

Just like that. Jazz gritted his dental plates, but had to reply. "I'm here as requested, sir. Autobot Jazz, finally reportin' for duty."

It was times like these, the mech-turned-femme mused, that revealed how young the Prime was: "Really?" was surely not an appropriate response.

"Sorry, but how did this happen?" Prowl spoke up from his chair. The officer had been a mech in the corridor, he thought. After leaving him in the medbay, Prowl had left to sort out the mess that remained.

"Ya're askin' the mech," Jazz winced, remembering his condition, "who was unconscious at the time 'what happened?'" He snorted as he remembered his brief on the officers who already resided on the base. Bitterness temporarily overran attraction. "And ya're the tactician? Primus help us."

Prowl's faceplates heated up, but he didn't have anything to say to the muttered comment.

Prime tried to regain control of the situation. "Right. Meeting commenced, shall we say?"

* * *

Next time, Jazz decided he would just shoot him. Blaster was rolling on the floor, and showed no signs of stopping his laughter. "Last time I tell ya anythin'," he grumbled.

Blaster looked up at him. "But, sweetie," he wheezed, "who would you share your femme-ly secrets with instead?"

That was it. Blaster shut up abruptly when a small crater appeared next to his head. But the sight of Jazz on the floor, cursing his new centre of gravity and targeting system, set him off again in no time.

Jazz got his arms under him, and sat up. "I don' know why ya're laughin', _darling_." He stressed the endearment. "Ma aim gets a little better every time I shoot."

Blaster hoped Jazz wouldn't aim for permanent damage, but the jibe would be worth it. "It's no wonder the medic thought you were a femme. You certainly have the temper."

And wasn't that wonderful. Jazz wouldn't shoot him now, and prove him right. He was _not_ going to be a femme!

* * *

"Has Perceptor worked out wha' went wron'?" Jazz asked by way of greeting. It was the same every time he met the mech on duty. Prowl frowned, and was glad he had something new to report. Two weeks of the femme frame and the saboteur was very twitchy, and very fast. He had no desire to be shot like the last mech who made a pass at the officer. They weren't out of medbay yet.

"Nothing went wrong, as such. He realised that the device did exactly what it was built to do; rebuild. Only, the explosion sent the calibrations haywire and well, the result?" He did an obvious glance over Jazz's frame. He made a nice femme, in all honesty.

Jazz pulled his gun. "Don' do it. Don' say it. Don' even think it."

Prowl got back on track quickly. "The explosion provided the energy, remember the light?" Jazz nodded. "And you were the only one who got hi- their armour pierced." Jazz was still glaring. It was his normal expression, nowadays. "When it got into your frame, the energy started changing things about. Your medical readings were a bit strange for a few days- I think you were still being subtly changed on the inside. It wasn't damaging, so the med equipment couldn't pick up on it."

Jazz started to hope. "So, ta get me back- all he has ta do is rebuild the device?" He wanted it clarified.

Prowl smiled then. "Yes, exactly."

* * *

"Urk..."

Jazz onlined to what he now intimately knew was the medbay. He even thought he knew the voices arguing over his berth.

"What do you mean, oops? It was meant to be an exact, working replica, what happened?" He'd never heard Prowl so angry.

"I- that is- there was some margin for error." Perceptor said everything very quickly, like it would make what he was saying less incriminating. "My office door was open at the time of the original explosion- some data was damaged, and some was lost."

Jazz struggled to sit up. At least this time, he wasn't restrained. "An' ya didn' report it?" he asked, incredulous.

"There was a lot going on at the time!" Perceptor defended himself.

Jazz looked down and sighed. No change. "Record everythin' that ya did, an' change it. Make the weapon-"

Prowl snorted.

Jazz continued like nothing had happened. "Make ya weapon again, but slightly differen'. I don' care if it comes down ta trial and error, ya _are_ turnin' me back!"

The medic gestured behind Jazz's back. Prowl nodded. The sedative was administered, and Jazz fell back on his berth, offline again.

He turned to the scientist. "Perceptor," he said, voice low. "You will return to your lab, and you will continue your efforts to turn her back into her original form." The scientist nodded and hurried from the room.

Blaster, who had been silent until now, laughed in the doorway. "I bet you don't call him that when he's awake."

Prowl smirked. "Of course not. She's far more volatile then."

* * *

Three slagging months. It had only taken him this long to build the original thing. What was taking so long, slag it!

"Jazz."

"Prowl." The mech had become an almost constant presence at his side. It was comforting.

"How are you today?"

"Only slightly more annoyed than yesterday. I think I'm gonna need some therapy when this is done with."

"Have you considered..." Prowl trailed off.

"Wha'? Is there another way?"

"No, but... have you considered... staying like this?" Seeing Jazz's angry face, he elaborated. "You're quicker than you were before, not as strong, I'll admit, but much more agile, which is a huge bonus in your former field work. Don't you want to get back out there? It's only your CPU profile keeping you on light duty. If you could accept it-"

"No way in th'Pit. Not even in the Well. I am not goin' through life havin' cheap passes made at me by every new recruit, havin' ma aft handed ta me by mechs I could put through the wall before this, an' being cooped up on base until the end of this fragging war!"

"But- can't you see? You wouldn't be cooped up if you trained your frame to its peak! You shouldn't keep working to your old strengths, that's why you keep 'having your aft handed to you'. Accept it, accept this, and two of your reasons are null and void."

Jazz paused. "I bet ya're a hard negotiator." He was grinning as he said it.

Prowl laughed. "Tactician, remember. And when was the last time someone made a pass at you? Your reputation has grown so much I'd think that no one would be brave enough."

Jazz counted internally. "Two weeks, three days, seven hours, forty six minutes, thirteen sec-"

"I think I get the picture." Prowl couldn't help but ask, "You keep count?"

Jazz only smirked.

* * *

It was fruitless. They had tried over twenty variations, and nothing had worked. In a foul mood, Jazz stalked from the medbay to get a cube of energon.

At the dispenser, he relaxed slightly and sipped the sweetened mixture. His state was _really _starting to get to him.

He turned to leave, planning to grab some recharge before his next shift. He was sharing it with more recruits, and needed all the patience he could get.

As he passed through the door that he felt it. A hand shot out, and gave his aft a hard, deliberate squeeze.

Conversation stopped instantly. Optics locked onto the cocky recruit and the fuming officer who had frozen in the doorway.

The recruit tried his luck anyway. "So when do you get off-shift, babe?"

Jazz spun and shot. The recruit crumbled, holding his thigh, where he'd been hit.

"Damn." Jazz remarked. "Ma aim's off." He resumed his walk, ignoring everyone who tried to get his attention.

The recruit looked at his guide in confusion. Blaster chuckled. "I was just about to warn you. Luck must be on your side today."

"What was lucky about that?"

Blaster looked positively gleeful. "Her aim's off. Normally, she'd shoot you in the crotch."

* * *

"I hear you had another run in." Door locks were no deterrent to the SIC.

Jazz was pacing in his room, recharge forgotten. "Cocky son of a glitch! I shoulda shot him again!"

"I think he's suitably scarred. And scared."

"_I'm_ not suitably _satisfied_."

"Jazz." Prowl grabbed the femme by the shoulders and made her stop and face him. "It's been overlooked until now, because of your unique situation. But you can't keep shooting the troops. You report them, and they'll be punished for harassment of a superior officer. If you keep at it- I'll have to punish you instead."

"But Perceptor got off free when this entire situation is 'is fault!" Jazz knew he was whining, but couldn't care less.

Prowl looked steadily into his visor. "You know, I thought about this a lot when it happened. _You_ walked into _him_, Jazz. You might not want to hear this, but it can only be entirely your own fault. That's not to say you deserve the 'punishment'," he pacified when Jazz growled, "But you can't blame anyone else."

Jazz looked down. "I can blame Primus an' his universe," he mumbled. Then, clearer, "And I can blame ya. Did ya never wonder wha' distracted me in the first place?" He was looking up again.

Prowl blinked. Then took several steps back, to put space between them. "I assumed you were talking to Blaster," he said carefully.

"No, ya didn'," Jazz scoffed, continuing carelessly. "Ya know full well I was starin' at ya." His hand flew to his mouth, as if to take back the words. "I-"

Prowl didn't know what to say.

"I have a shift!" Jazz managed to say, and ran for it. Prowl let himself out.

He had suspected. He had guessed, but didn't think it could be true. Then Jazz had confirmed it.

Blaster saw him in the corridor, and guessed the confusion on his face was to do with a fleeing femme he'd just seen. "Finally work it out?" he asked.

Prowl started. "What?"

"Please, I saw you two coming since Jazz was a mech. Not that it would have changed anything, right?" His tone became fierce at the end.

Prowl felt he was being bizarrely interrogated. "What? No, of course not. It might have taken a bit longer, but," he stopped when Blaster smiled, expressions changing like a switch being flicked.

"That's lovely then." And he walked on.

Prowl stayed where he was. "What did I just admit to?" he asked the empty corridor. He replayed the conversation. "Nope. Nothing." He tried again, focusing on Blaster's tone of voice. "No- oh. _Oh_. That changes things." Prowl thought about the previous months, finally smiling a little. "Actually, that changes very little."

* * *

The next time Prowl saw Jazz was in the sparring rooms. He surveyed the carnage with a neutral eye. "Frame starting to suit you?" he inquired.

Jazz glanced up from the demolished drone. "Prowl, hi. Did ya know the Autobots have a great tactician? Been thinkin', and realised I should take some o' his advice. What do ya know? I'm back on field missions as o' next week."

Prowl tilted his head. "You mean..?"

The femme laughed ruefully. "It's been six months. If I was goin' ta change back, Primus woulda let it happen by now. An' besides," his grin turned sly, "Two of ma objections are now null an' void."

Did he dare believe it? Prowl counted in his head. "But it's only been six days and eleven hours since a recruit made a pass at you-"

Jazz laughed. "Now ya're keepin' count?"

Prowl tried to look innocent. "For mysterious reasons, he's been pulling double shifts since then."

That was almost cute, Jazz thought. "An' I've figured out a faultless plan ta take out reason three," he stated. "A flawless plan."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "You should take this plan to a tactician. Let them check it over." The question was in his voice. Jazz would hear it clearly.

"I plan ta." _She_ rose to her feet and sashayed over to him, bringing emphasis to her much hated curves. Jazz put her hands on his shoulders, leant up, and kissed him softly.

Prowl reacted almost instantly. He brought his arms up around her waist and held her close. It remained a soft kiss; gentle questions and reassurances on both sides. Passion could wait for later, when they were better acquainted with each other.

* * *

In the privacy of what would now be their quarters, Jazz started laughing. "What?" Prowl asked her.

"Just thinkin'. Percy's machine, device, whatever. It didn' work."

That was the last thing he thought _she'd_ say. "How so?"

She smirked. "He didn' change anythin', did he?"

Then Prowl caught on. He smirked right back at her, and simply laughed in agreement.


	7. Even Angels Fall

Shout outs: Hecate-19, Bloodshifter2, Independent.C. () and K-tiraam. Any and all feedback makes me smile.

Really short one, from Transfictions. I think I've found them all now- the others will be following.

Is mainly Screamer angst, with reference to Starscream/Skyfire. Set immediately after the decepticons find Skyfire in the ice.

Song is called, Even Angels Fall, by Jessica Riddle (thanks to lokimademedoit for the artist!).

Edited 11/6/2012- elaborated and improved (and now has a song artist).

* * *

Starscream wanted to pummel something. He wanted to feel plating crushed under his fingers and hear the screams as energon lines were torn free.

Unfortunately, there were no Autobots about, so he resigned himself to flying.

It wasn't often he got away from the Nemesis on his own (for some unfathomable reason, Megatron didn't trust him), and he revelled in the opportunities that arose when he did: he could finally fly like he had back on Cybertron.

He may be confined to this Earth-jet frame, but it was moments like this that proved the difference in limitations and conformations didn't _matter_: Starscream was made for the air, and grace and skill transcended all alt-modes.

He dipped his left wing, letting the air caress the sensors on both sides. The serenity found in Earth's clouds, which were so unlike anything from his home planet, nonetheless reminded him of more peaceful times, when his arms were fitted with experimental equipment instead of null-rays. When his best optical upgrade was for magnification, rather than to see who was sneaking up on him in the dark.

The times when his companions were fellow scientists and not brothers-in-arms (or traitorous slaggers, depending on his mood and his most recent transgressions).

When Skyfire... seeing him again... it brought back a lot of memories, and most of them were unwelcome. He'd cut off that section of his life for a reason, and rarely (never, if he could get away with it) looked back.

Finding Skyfire trapped in the ice... he couldn't remember the last time his processor had gone blank on him. Then again, no one had ever affected him quite the way Skyfire had. Did.

Fraggit!

The mech was one of the smartest Starscream had ever worked with; how could he not understand that even Cybertronians changed over extended periods of time? There were parts of Starscream's past he'd done everything he could to forget, and most of them occurred just after he'd lost Skyfire the first time. The rest had of course been the all too brief time they'd actually spent together.

Losing him, living without him had become too much. He'd _had_ to change for the sake of his survival- the amount of time only highlighted the facts of it. Starscream had changed and he was surviving a millennia-long, still ongoing war. He had risen to the highest of the aerial forces the Decepticons could offer- he was _excelling _in his changes!

For _him_, time hadn't stopped at all. Why didn't Skyfire realise they couldn't stay (his CPU shrieked, _go back to_, and was ruthlessly silenced) the way they were? It wasn't viable in the current fashion of decepticon friendship, where everyone was looking over their shoulders just to catch a glimpse when their quickly denounced friend fell from grace.

Why hadn't the shuttle realised that despite harsh words, Starscream still loved him? He'd always spoken through actions, and right up until the mech had betrayed the decepticons (_himself_) he hadn't raised a null-ray against the re-awakened mech. But _his_ millenia spent in ice, although he didn't feel it, must have damaged Skyfire; twisted something in him. He could no longer read the smaller jet, could no longer see that love in something as simple as a hand gesture, like the one he'd often made at the shuttle from across their shared lab-space.

(nowadays, Starscream's hands mostly moved when he was aiming his null-rays at their latest target. It was a comparison he refused to linger on.)

_I love you._

Why did Starscream find it so hard to admit that out loud?

Was that... could it be..? Maybe that was why Skyfire hadn't realised. Starscream had never told him so, had relied so heavily on his actions to say the words for him. Was he the one expecting too much?

The jet voiced his rage where only the clouds could hear him, his rage, blind fury and beneath it all, his sorrow. _Why_ hadn't he ever said anything?


	8. Naive

Sunstreaker/Bluestreak pairing, G1, Earth-based. Inspired by The Kooks, Naive. The song's guitar part sets a slightly darker cast to the lyrics for me than was probably intended (even if for the purposes of this snippet I completely disregarded the chorus). War means nobody can afford to be so innocent, regardless of age or personality.

Edited 11/6/2012- cosmetics, elaborated, grammar. I like this one a lot.

So- yeah. Ficcage here.

* * *

He was an artist; attracted by lines, shapes, colours, textures...

He'd caught the other mech's optics, and fallen. CPU kicking and screaming on the way down, nevertheless finally admitting to himself that he wanted to sweep up the other mech and never let him go. He was so innocent, one of the youngest, so naive despite his accumulated battle experience.

So alluring.

It was during a battle when he finally admitted it. Skywarp distracted by his twin, Starscream on the ground for once (shooting Megatron, so perhaps it wasn't such a surprise), leaving Thundercracker for the golden twin to deal with.

Except the blue jet decided to go after someone a little easier to target.

Sunstreaker's spark froze and he felt his brother nudge him as it traversed the twins' bond. "Bluestreak!" He yelled loud enough to be heard over the battle noise. "Get down!"

The gunner whirled and spotted the seeker bearing down on him. Sunstreaker saw the surprise cross the mech's face, saw him _freeze_ in the middle of the battlefield _(-still so unused to battle- how the frag has he survived this long- why is he even _here_- what do they think he'll be able to do-)_, and cursed when Bluestreak either refused to, or just _couldn't_ move away from the new threat. Running flat out over the battlefield, he grabbed the Datsun and threw both of them to the ground as shots struck the rocks behind them. Shrapnel struck his back as he protected Bluestreak with his own frame. Sensing out the severity of the tiny scratches, he winced: Ratchet refused to patch up paintwork injuries. Finally, the shower stopped, and he rose himself onto his elbows, freeing the trapped gunner. "You okay?" He asked softly. Bluestreak nodded, and scrambled out from beneath him.

Sunstreaker got to his feet and locked his optics on Thundercracker, who was wheeling around for another pass. "Let him come," he growled, feeling the anger rise. If he'd been a bit slower, if Bluestreak hadn't heard him... "I'll cause some fragging paint scratches and more!"

By this point, most Autobots would be backing away. Despite the generally-accepted-as-pleasing frame (his vanity was _not_ misplaced), the golden twin looked feral: optics bright, weapons bared and vocaliser snarling. Bluestreak didn't see that. All he could see was his beautiful saviour. The one who'd stopped him becoming the latest casualty in this Primus-forsaken war. And when he'd been trapped by the twin, when he'd been held in his arms... he'd felt the Lamborghini trembling. In his optics, he'd seen more than battle-lust, he'd seen something most Autobots thought the melee fighter incapable of.

He'd seen _fear_. Fear for him.

Sunstreaker cared about Bluestreak.

"Sunstreaker!" He yelled after the twin before he disappeared into the madness again. Wondering if he was going crazy, and if it should feel so good, he grabbed the Lamborghini by the shoulders and kissed him, like he'd seen human couples do.

Would Sunstreaker understand?

"Sunstreaker!" Bluestreak was calling him, and some of the rage subsided. Slightly. Enough so that he could turn away from the coming fight for a moment. He saw the Datsun step towards him, and wondered what he was doing-

Bluestreak kissed him. Right in the middle of a battle. Bluestreak kissed _him_. Sunstreaker almost froze himself _(stupid thing to do in the middle of a battle- does the naive glitch have any sense- why did I have to like _him_- is he really...-) _as his infatuation made the move himself to prove it two-sided.

"Bluestreak?" he put the question in his tone, pulling away after a moment.

"Be careful, that seeker's still out there and now Starscream's joined him and Megatron's fighting with Prime and you've only got me to watch your back..."

Sunstreaker couldn't believe the Datsun could string together one of his trademark sentences even in during a fight. "Bluestreak," he interrupted. "I'll be okay. Especially," he added with a wicked smirk, "now I've got _that_ in my memory banks. Hm." He pondered the situation for a second (and the others thought he and his twin never considered _any _sort of strategy). "Keep Starscream busy for a minute. I'll just be taking care of Thundercracker." He knew savage glee was written on his face. He enjoyed fighting. Let Prime frag himself if he didn't like it, and the other Autobots could join in if they thought he cared that they didn't like him too much for it.

Bluestreak though, sweet, innocent, naive little Bluestreak- he saw the savage glee and accepted it as a part of Sunstreaker. "I'll try." The Datsun pressed close for one last kiss before the Lamborghini broke off and yelled for Thundercracker to get his 'slag-modelled, rust-ridden, pit-bound frame' close enough for him to repay the damages his own had suffered. With interest, of course.

Bluestreak smiled at the comment- it might be a dangerous plan, but it was what made the golden twin happy- and raised his rifle, sighting along the barrel for the third seeker. He had something to protect, something to fight for- more than a ghost city and ideals he couldn't remember. His crosshairs lined up on Starscream, and without hesitation Bluestreak pulled the trigger.

Direct hit. Not enough to put the seeker out of the battle, but Starscream could be heard running his vocaliser from the gunner's relatively secure position as he scanned the ground for the offending shooter. The seeker was completely distracted from the decepticon's plan, only interested in finding the mech who'd shot him.

The Datsun smiled (_the plan was working- Sunstreaker's that little bit safer- I'm doing something right-)_ and sighted for the second time, aiming for the same area.

_Something to protect, so I'll see him again sooner._ They had a lot unspoken between them. Maybe it was time to have out with it, and see what could grow between the pair. Maybe he'd march straight up to Sunstreaker after the decepticons retreated and kiss him again in full view of their comrades, not distracted this time by the battle. Maybe Sunstreaker would march up to him instead.

_The post-battle confusion_, he thought, _was going to be interesting..._


	9. Things That Go Bump In The Night

Oh dear. G1, Earth, but family relationships rather than pairings. Featuring Ratbat, Rumble and their dad.

I blame Scooby Doo.

Song: Allstars, Things That Go Bump In The Night. (Hides in ball of shame.)

Edited 11/6/2012- cosmetics, slight elaboration and grammar.

* * *

Ratbat squeaked, hearing the trees groan loudly in the dead of the night. He didn't like recharging outside of the Nemesis, but Creator had refused to leave him alone on the ship when he and his siblings were all on their own missions. Rumble, the only one also mission less (and not considered adequate protection when he was more likely to laugh- or bring the trouble over in the first place), was dead to the world, deep in recharge. He envied his brother.

The wind picked up, shrieking through the leaves. He drew his wings over his audios in an attempt to keep the sound out, but didn't dare turn them off entirely because then he wouldn't hear if something tried to sneak up on him. It was dark, and cold, and wet...

It had started raining that afternoon, and hadn't let up since. Ratbat was as much afraid as drowning in his recharge as being slaughtered by some as of yet unknown animal.

He checked his internal chronometer. Five hours till sunrise. He could hold on until then, no matter the multiple warnings of impending statis lock if he didn't shut down soon...

Rumble turned over, twitching in his sleep. Ratbat screamed and jumped into the nearest tree. He just felt safer, somehow...

Four hours fifty-eight minutes...

A dislodged leaf drifted down from the branches, settling on Ratbat's head and covering his optics temporarily.

He shrieked and jumped down from the branch in one leap. It was too easy to be ambushed in the tree.

Miserable, shaking and soaking, Ratbat curled up next to his brother and off-lined his entire sensory net. Creator would be displeased, but it was the only way he'd get any recharge... at least now, if something _did_ try to eat him, he wouldn't be aware of it... and hopefully it would go for Rumble first, as his sibling was bigger than him...

* * *

"Rumble: online."

The cassette twitched, before recognising the voice and shooting upright. "Urg. Another sunrise." He wondered why Soundwave was so annoyed; he hadn't been awake long enough to do anything wrong. He looked around for his brother who'd stayed the night with him in the clearing.

Ah. Yes, that would annoy Soundwave.

"Look," he began, hesitantly. "I was in recharge the whole night through! I have no idea where the pipsqueak went, or what he-"

"Problem: observe," Soundwave interrupted. "Ratbat: eject."

He felt a momentary swell of relief that his younger brother was okay. Then annoyance, that he was being told off (and probably put on punishment duty when they got back to the Nemesis) because of said baby brother.

"What in the Pit did you think you were doing?" he hissed. "We were meant to stay together last night!"

Ratbat trembled, looking at the ground. "The noises... scary. You wouldn't wake up!" he accused. "It was terrifying! I hate this world and its scary monsters in the night! I thought something was going to eat me and you _wouldn't wake up and help!_"

Rumble's optics went very wide. His gaze rose to meet that of his creator's, saying eloquently without words, _are you serious?_ The stern, continuous stare of Soundwave's visor answered that question.

"Ratbat." How did you tell a small robot that the alien monsters would not want to eat you, and that it was only the weather and his imagination? "I'm sorry. Next time I'll stay awake and keep watch over you."

Soundwave was fiercely protective of his youngest's innocence. Short answer: you didn't.

All Rumble hoped was that Frenzy didn't hear of this, until... frag that. He didn't want Frenzy to hear of this, period.

Ratbat was still trembling and whining in their creator's hold.

Frag it, Frenzy was going to have blackmail material for _vorns_.


	10. You Found Me

Yay- new ficcage again.

This one came out kinda strange, but it was deliberately made that way. It's brother-bonding, between Bluestreak and Prowl. Ratchet has a cameo. Genres include 'supernatural' though, and **warning:** heavy angst and 'kind of' character death (will be explained). Starts in G1 and goes from pre- to on Earth.

Kelly Clarkson got to me. This was inspired by her, 'You Found Me'. Love that track.

Edited 11/6/2012- cosmetics (abuse of the line divider), grammar, slightly more to Prowl's side of things now.

* * *

If this is a dream, I want to wake up. Before everything becomes too happy and I can't face the reality. But if it's a nightmare... it can't be worse than the reality, can it?

My faith holds on to the fact that he found me. In the middle of a battle, with fire all around, _he found me_. Took me from the ruins of Praxus and made sure I lived another day. How could I want to leave him, even in a dream? The pain of surviving was fleeting compared to the fear and the worry I feel when he's gone. He's the first thing I remember, since I can't remember anything from before he found me.

Because of him, I trained. I became good at shooting, made myself into something useful in this Primus-forsaken war. I tried a little bit harder every time because it would give him that extra bit of protection. I found other warriors, friends even, who had just as much drive to fight, but I can't tell them where my drive comes from. It's like I have to keep him safe, make sure he's okay because without him... I would cease to exist. My spark would drift apart, not even back to the Matrix we hear so much about, but just like it never existed in this reality.

It was ridiculous. He had plenty of 'Bots looking after him already. But I still felt I was important to him. He talked to me when I was nervous, held me when I was upset and helped me when I needed it. It was only when I saw his optics growing dark with exhaustion that I started to realise I was causing him harm as much as he made me better.

I tried to let go. Honestly. I let myself spend longer away from the base, ask for wider patrols, request missions deeper into enemy territory. I thought it was working well. I'd figured Prowl would get better, and then I could talk to him again. Weeks later, when I saw him after a particularly troubling shift, I saw his optics were just as dark. When I asked what was wrong, he only patted my shoulder and said, "I'm glad you're home safe, Bluestreak." He was worried about me. It was nice to be cared about, even as I finally realised that _I_ was responsible for his dark gaze- even if it was only a little bit, _I_ was inadvertedly hurting him with my actions. It was a hurt I couldn't ease, though- I was doing it to protect him. He was strong enough to withstand that- I was the one who constantly needed reassurances and needed to know he was still there. He would be fine, eventually. I understood and accepted that I'd always need him more than he needed me.

But I couldn't understand _why_ he cared, _why_ we shared this link.

Then came the Ark. It was launched in faith, the last hope for our race. I was honoured to be selected as a part of its crew, more so when I realised the recommendation came from Prowl himself.

Hope fell, crashed on the odd little rock inhabitants called Earth. I had four million years of enforced statis trapped in my own head. I didn't think about anything, really- instead, I _dreamed_.

* * *

"Blue! Bluestreak, watch OUT!"

I didn't stand a chance. I knew, even as I saw the shuttle heading in my direction, I wouldn't be able to avoid it in time. My body froze and I prayed to Primus that I would see my brother after all the medical care I was sure to need. With him being the chief surgeon, it was more than likely, and I took comfort in that as I felt the impact buckle plating. Pain built up in my circuits as more lines were ruptured and struts broken. Then black, without any light to let me see by. I realised I was going into statis lock; my sensors were shutting down one by one to conserve any energy they could.

Then oblivion.

* * *

I forced my optics to online briefly before they shut off again in protest.

It had been enough. Prowl was there.

"Hey little brother," he crooned softly. "I know for a fact you should still be sedated. I put you under, after all." I felt his hand on my chevron, and relaxed. It couldn't be too bad if he sounded like that. Everything hurt- but the shuttle damage must've been superficial.

The black I'd left behind only minutes ago rose again and pulled me back under. I thought I heard someone crying just before my CPU went blank.

* * *

I onlined again, but the pain was worse. I whimpered, the sound immediately gaining a nurse-drone's attention. "Paging nearest doctor" it intoned, but I wasn't really listening. I heard it, but didn't understand what it meant until I felt hands restraining me and a needle in one of my energon lines. I struggled, not knowing what was going on or where I was or where-

"Bluestreak!" I recognised Prowl's voice, far gone as I was. My brother sounded worried. "You've got to keep fighting... every time you go into statis there's a greater risk you won't come back. I don't know what's wrong with you, but I can't keep sedating you! Please little brother, fight!" He squeezed my hand. I tried to squeeze back, reassure him, but the pain was too great, even with the new drugs.

For the third time, I went under forcibly.

* * *

The noises woke me. Soft, but well-spoken. It could only be my brother, but who was he speaking to?

"I'm sorry Prowl." The other voice was sympathetic over the comm. link. "There's nothing I can identify from these files that can tell us why Bluestreak keeps falling into statis."

"But I can't repair his body fully until his spark's all there! You have to find something, Ratchet!" Prowl was nearly yelling, for all the good it was doing. Ratchet- my brother had spoken of him sometimes. Leading expert in spark-related incidents.

"I can't explain it. It's like his spark is trying to relocate, trying to leave his chamber." Ratchet hated feeling helpless, and it showed. "I don't know what to suggest."

I wondered that they hadn't realised I was awake and listening to their conversation from my hospital bed. Prowl sounded desperate. I wished I could stay awake and help, explain fully what was happening to me. Statis wasn't the right word for it; mechs didn't dream in statis. Should I tell him about my dreams? Did they have any meaning? They seemed... well, harmless wasn't right- I _was_ dreaming of a war- but irrelevant. Nothing between them and reality was the same.

Well, okay, Prowl was there. And Ratchet, I think- maybe a couple more mechs I'd known since sparkling-hood. That was normal though, wasn't it? That I'd dream of my friends when I was hurt? Although I couldn't believe what I was putting us all through- one desperate battle after another, fighting to survive even when the battles were over because energy was growing scarce.

I dreamed that Cybertron was dying and we with it. Harmless definitely wasn't the word, but-

-it couldn't change anything, surely?

* * *

When we all finally onlined on Earth, I didn't tell anyone about my statis experience. No one else was volunteering their own, and even as vocal as I could be, it was too private to consider talking about. I almost wished it could have been true, and Prowl was my older brother, although I couldn't imagine him as a medic. _That_ was strange.

So I talked about anything else to anyone I came across. It gave me a certain reputation, but it kept them from seeing if anything was wrong. It was a question I didn't want to consider, and wouldn't until I onlined on Ratchet's med-berth with no memory file on how I got there. I remembered being in the rec room, and I remembered dreaming (not an unusual experience, anymore)- but there was nothing in between.

"Your spark fluctuated." Ratchet announced, unusually serious. "I don't know what happened, or why, or whether it will happen again. But you are-" he glanced at his monitors- "fine according to all my machines and so I will release you." He paused, bitterness crossing his features. "I can't afford not to. We need every 'bot we've got out there." His optics narrowed to impress the command in his next words. "Come to me immediately if you feel strange. Understand?"

I nodded, but the medic wasn't done. "And see Prowl- he stopped by earlier."

I nodded again (the safest policy) and made to leave. But something was nagging at me; my dreams. I _had_ to ask, and Ratchet's medbay was so rarely empty, this might be my only chance. "What was your specialty pre-war, Ratchet? What kind of medicine?"

He grimaced and I felt bad for asking the question. Nobody liked to remember what they'd lost. I waited patiently though; I _had_ to know. Eventually, he answered. It chilled me slightly, both his tone and the words themselves.

"I specialised in sparks."

* * *

"-streak. Blue! Bluestreak! Watch OUT!"

* * *

I onlined with a jerk. The Ark's walls were that same comforting (revolting) orange colour. Hound, my roommate, looked worried.

"Blue?" He asked hesitantly. Most of the crew had been treating me like glass recently. "Do you need to see Ratchet?"

I growled and left the room. Just because I had one inexplicable incident did not mean-

My dreams, always close to the surface of my CPU, came back to me. Inexplicable?

Spark fluctuation. Relocation.

Fluctuation. Between one state and another. Here, and not here. There.

I ran for Prowl's office. I didn't know who else to go to.

* * *

I onlined for what was the six time in the hospital, that I remembered, anyway. My brother was by the berth, head in his hands. "Prowl?" I asked weakly. It was hard to talk, but seeing his optics light up as they realised I was conscious was some balm for the pain. "How long?"

The question wasn't explicit, but he understood. "Three months." He said softly. It had been three months since I had last onlined, and every time it got harder to come back, just like they'd warned it would be.

But that last dream... "Need to talk," I croaked. Prowl was immediately beside my bed, holding my hand.

"Tell me," he said simply.

* * *

Prowl's expression did not change as I told him about all of my dreams, even those while in statis after crashing on Earth. His hands clenched as he laid them on his desk. As I finished, and he still said nothing, I was afraid he was locked in a logic-loop. "Prowl?" I asked, fearful of what he was going to say.

"I... Blue... I can't... when did this first occur to you?" The logic was giving him some problems, it appeared. But something occurred to me then- and he'd be the only one who knew, so I ignored his question for one of my own.

" I'd rather you told me something." I tried to be polite, but sudden eagerness was overpowering my words. I might finally have an answer- something I'd only briefly dared to hope for. "What state was I in when you found me?" It was crazy, what I was thinking. It was impossible, surely?

It was important to me to know. Just like with Ratchet, I _had_ to know, had to ask him. All _I_ remembered from that time was his face, then the nearest med facility.

His optics widened. I think my request surprised him. But he considered it, and answered slowly. "You... weren't pretty. Your plating had all the evidence of fresh welds, and some of your struts were broken. More showed evidence of being broken, and hastily repaired- Ratchet called it like a patch job that was never completed, among other things. He wasn't impressed with how much work had been left undone." He stopped abruptly, and I knew he'd realised the link. Wounds consistent with what my dream self- I hesitated to call him my alternate self- had suffered.

"And my spark?" I prompted. Illogical, crazy, impossible- or only improbable?

He wouldn't meet my optics. "It was fluctuating."

There was one more question I wanted to ask him- had always wanted to ask, but been too intimidated at first, and then too scared to do so. Now though- I had told him everything; I felt like there was nothing to lose.

"Prowl?" He finally looked up at me, worry written all over his expression. But he nodded, silently telling me to ask my question.

"How _did_ you find me, that day?" I'd looked over the unclassified reports as soon as I'd been set free from medbay. It hadn't been pretty reading- I was the only survivor of the attack, and the city was completely levelled.

The surprise was less this time; the lines of his face plates softened into understanding and- empathy?

"I was... particularly motivated, that day," he began what was looking to be a lengthy explanation. "I don't think I've ever told you, and Primus knows all records of it have been destroyed, but... well, Praxus was my city of origin, too." I gasped; he was right. I'd never known where he originated from; it had somehow never seemed important. _Big mistake_ ruefully crossed my CPU. But Prowl continued, prompting me to listen in again. "I dropped everything when I heard of the attack, praying that somehow, somewhere, _someone_ had survived. Damage reports were already arriving, you see, and nobody had been found alive." He took a deep breath, sorrow showing in his expression for just a moment. "I carried around more triage equipment than weapons those days, did you know? Maybe your dreams of me being a medic weren't so strange." He stared into space with a wistful look. "But Praxus was the start of an escalation even if we didn't know it at the time. We needed every fighter we could get, and I put aside dreams of medicine to become a tactician and perhaps _prevent_ the casualties before they happened."

Another parallel. Unlike the previous one, it comforted me this time. And still Prowl spoke.

"I was behind the frontlines, looking for anyone still alive, anyone who might survive if they could just last a bit longer until the medics arrived. I found cold frames and broken buildings, mostly. I was losing hope, wandering by this point." He looked at me then, something like wonder in his optics. "Then... then I found you. I don't know what prompted me to wander in that direction, to that building; I was moving on autopilot. My city had been destroyed and I'd recognised some of the frames I'd left behind amongst the destruction. I was completely numb, until I heard the faintest noise- a static charge, the sort of thing a shorted-out vocaliser produces." He looked at me fondly. "You couldn't talk, but still made any sound you could. And the battle was still going on, shots being fired overhead- and they were so _loud_, and you so quiet. But I thank Primus every day for letting me hear you, because I started running, and I found you underneath a collapsed building, looking more slagged than anybody had any right to be. You were barely conscious; I patched up what I could, and got you to the medics."

He stood up and walked around his desk, enfolding me in a hug. I froze; although I liked to think on how close we were, he'd never before shown such affection. "I never told you this, either," he whispered, voice hitching on the words, "But you- you saved me too, Bluestreak, that day." I pulled back, optics wide. _What_? He saw me open my mouth, and forestalled me. "I had lost hope before I found you. I... the thoughts in my CPU weren't pretty. I thought- stupid things- and then, I found you. And I had something concrete to focus on." He pulled away, but took one of my hands instead. "I know you think you need me more than I need you," I tried to protest; he carried on over me, "don't try to argue- we both know you do. But it's not true." His expression was unyielding, but lost none of the gentleness. "I needed you that day, Bluestreak- and I still do. You've stopped me so many times from just giving up feeling, and you don't even realise it." He started smiling then, probably because of the dumbstruck expression on _my_ face. "We found each other, Bluestreak- and like I said, I thank Primus every day for giving me that chance."

He finally fell silent. For once, I didn't say anything; there was nothing that could follow such a speech. Instead, I pulled him back close for another hug, winding my arms around his frame and holding on tightly.

The silence was comfortable, though; I think we both agreed that nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

"Bluestreak... I don't want you to do this. There's still a chance..."

I cut my brother off gently- I couldn't manage much more than a whisper, anyway. "I have to do this. It's the only way one of _us_ will survive." I didn't know which pair I meant- one of Prowl and me, or one of me and myself? "You'll waste away looking after me in here- you've already all but discarded your career." He winced, and I knew I'd hit the mark. "But there- I _know_ you'll find me. It won't be exactly the same, but like a dream. Or maybe it's more appropriate to call it a nightmare- there's some sort of war going on. Still, it can't be worse than this reality, right?"

Prowl said nothing, but I knew he'd not interfere. And he'd disconnect me from the life support after I fell offline this time. It was risky, but seemed the best, and most logical, solution.

"Love you," I whispered. "Know you'll find me. Already have, strictly speaking."

"Oh Blue," Prowl murmured. "I love you too. I'm so sorry..."

I didn't blame him, but he needed to hear it. I had to be quick; I'd already been online for so long, it was hard to stay that way... "Forgiven already- _you'll find me_."

I fell into the blackness for the final time.

* * *

It was the second time I'd woke up in the Ark's medbay in as many weeks. "What happened this time?" I asked, not really wanting to know.

"Bluestreak?" The voice came from my side, and I saw with pleasure that Prowl was sitting next to my berth.

"I can't have been out of it so long that the SIC can afford bed visits," I said, smiling to show how much I appreciated it. My grin faded when neither mech smiled back.

"It's been three months, Blue," Prowl said. That shocked me.

"But... I feel fine! Check your instruments!" I turned to Ratchet. "There's nothing wrong with me!"

"Not now, there isn't." Ratchet picked up the explanation. "Three months ago, your spark... extinguished. You were rushed here, but I thought... I thought it was too late. Prowl insisted you be put on life support. He's the one who found you offline. Hours later, your spark had re-ignited. Now you're out of statis. I don't know what's going on with you!"

I met Prowl's optics and realised he hadn't told Ratchet anything I'd said to him. He _was_ my brother, whether we were linked by creation or not.

"Whatever it was, I think it must be over now," I said, and Prowl's optics brightened as he got my underlying meaning. I'd tell him the rest in private later, but now I was exhausted. "I'd like to recharge some more, if that's okay." I looked at Ratchet, and he nodded.

"But I'm keeping you here for observation. You're not leaving until I-"

This time, it wasn't blackness greeting me. It was sweet oblivion, with stars and dreams.

* * *

It was like a self-fulfilling... what? Destiny? I snorted, as had Prowl when I mentioned that thought. Logic left no room for destiny.

But still...

There's one more memory that comes to me now, when I'm sleeping. An actual memory, not a dream or nightmare.

* * *

_There was a battle going furiously. I could hear shots being fired left and right, but couldn't move- the building was pinning me in place where it'd collapsed. I couldn't remember what had happened, but I tried to scream for help anyway. My vocaliser felt broken. The blackness was creeping up on me and I would've surrendered to it, but for the Autobot who'd literally crashed into my prone form._

_Black and white, with wings behind him. For some reason, he was familiar. Despite the pain, I was comforted._

_"You found me," I whispered. It was all I could manage. His optics brightened- he was evidently surprised to find me alive, given my injuries._

_"Can you tell me where the worst of the damage is?" He asked urgently._

_But all I could focus on was him. Not his words, nor his tone of voice, nor even the battle that seemed to pause as he spoke._

_"You found me, brother," I whispered, before falling offline. "You found me..."_


	11. Danger

This one got long and semi-plotty on me. I really like it, though.

The bulk is G1, pre-Earth. Friendship genre, maybe a little humour somewhere. Features Ratchet and the Twins, with cameos all over. Please excuse the OCs- again I figure that the Ark (and the Nemesis, to think of it) isn't together yet; they're just there to fill a needed gap.

Also, Ratchet isn't quite as abrasive as he is characterised on the Ark. I figure he hasn't experienced enough of the war that did that to him yet.

So, I give you the one inspired by 'Danger', Third Eye Blind.

And of course, shout out to: Starfire201, lokimademedoit and Deepseadolphin11. You all rock in your feedback-giving worlds.

Edited 11/6/2012- barely touched, really. Cosmetics, a little grammar.

* * *

Humans had a very succinct way of phrasing it: you only had one chance to make a first impression.

It was as he finished repairing Prowl's latest battle injury that Ratchet realised they were right, and why had Cybertronians never thought to say the same?

"Out." He ordered. "I don't want a Porsche infestation by keeping you overnight." Prowl gave him a look that could have been a smirk, and left without saying anything.

The medic considered his first impression of the SIC. Hard working, loyal and with an incredibly subtle sense of humour. Getting to know the Datsun had proved him correct.

And then there were other times, when the introduction had been less favourable. It was inevitable in hindsight that he would have met the infamous Autobot Twins on an operating table, but the circumstances were not ones he would want to occur again, or truthfully, ones that had happened often.

After all, _he'd_ been the one injured and laying there.

* * *

"Slaggit, we need cover!" Ratchet was furious, and showed it by yelling into his detachable comm so there was no chance the mech on the other end wouldn't hear him. His voice, however, could not drown out the sound of the missiles overhead, leaving little doubt that the comm mech heard them too.

When the link fritzed out, emitting only static, Ratchet cursed again and threw the offending headpiece at his pursuers. He'd gotten as many of the walking wounded out of the hospital as he could find, but there hadn't been enough time to collapse the structure behind him. What Ratchet wouldn't have given for Wheeljack to be in the area; blowing the building up would have been a fine substitue, and gotten rid of more of the fraggers pursuing him.

The comm unit struck the closest mech on the head, dropping him, and Ratchet allowed himself a dark laugh before turning and running as fast as his bulky med-design would let him. Transforming was out, since then he would lose his manoeuvrability as well as being disadvantaged in speed- and firepower- and numbers.

"Frag!" He shouted as he ran. "Any of you able to help me?" he asked the crowd of panicking mechs. Most of the medics and fighters were too injured or simply had nothing to fight with; Ratchet's own weapons were a modification granted only due to his status as CMO of the region. He paid no attention to where they were running but to be sure it was in the direction of the Autobot base. The base where he was certain a frontline unit was housed, if only he could get through to them.

* * *

"Sir?" The tentative voice asked, and the base commander glanced up. "I jus' picked up summin' from th' comms. Poss'bly a cry fo' help, cut off. I can' get anythin' now, sir." The recruit finished miserably and, ignoring the appalling accent, the officer looked at the communications screen.

"Jazz." He addressed the recruit. "Sound a general alarm. Send for the twins, they've been dying to get out for the last week."

"Sir!" His visor flickered, but his hands were already moving to do as he was commanded. "Sunstreak', Sides' ta th' 'trol room," he announced over the base-wide comm.

The commander winced, and hoped Jazz was understood.

Minutes later, the pair stepped into the room. The red one sketched what could have passed as a salute (if the commander was inclined to tilt his head at a 177 degree angle and set his optics to receive infra-red light). The gold one didn't even bother, but put a hand on his hip and stared, almost daring his commander to give him orders.

Jazz's eyes were wide at the sight of such insubordination. Although they had been recruited at the same time, even the same city, the twins had fought before and it showed. Jazz had applied for special operations, but those two had signed up asking for the place where, 'those slag-suckers bite it most'. They craved the action, and were good enough that most people were willing to overlook their minor infractions.

"There's been a possible distress call from the city, coordinates," here he checked the screen again, "237 by -096. 2.3 miles out. Assess the situation and, _only if there is dire need_, interfere as you feel appropriate. Do you understand?"

Sideswipe dropped his salute with a smirk. "Crystally so." It had been _so_ long since the last fight.

Sunstreaker didn't even confirm out loud, but grinned ferally and dipped his head once. As one unit, the twins strode from the room.

Jazz's irrepressible sense of humour struck. "I don' know who ta feel sorr'er for, th' 'Cons or th' 'bots they'll be rescuin'."

* * *

Ratchet ducked into a doorway as he saw the road ahead blocked by more of the Decepticons. He'd split off from the main group to lead the 'Cons away, firing madly the whole time. It had been a good idea, if a little too successful. He couldn't avoid them for much longer, he didn't deceive himself thinking he'd win a shoot-out and his communications were down. He had to find a public access comm unit soon, out of sight of the enemy.

Engine noises sounded overhead and the medic wanted to scream as he realised the 'Cons had brought in their jets. The hunt wouldn't last much longer.

With fatalistic determination, Ratchet stepped out of the doorway. He was taking at least three down with him.

He knew the exact moment the decepticons saw him, and prepared to avoid laser fire.

"Halt!" The new voice was authoritative and automatically the hunters obeyed. Ratchet looked for the source and noticed a tetrajet had landed, light blue in colour.

He didn't recognise the mech from the latest Autobot intelligence reports- he had to be new to the Decepticons.

"Do you surrender?"

Ratchet's CPU blanked for an astro-second. "Wh-" He couldn't quite get anything out of his vocaliser.

"Do you surrender?" The jet repeated. "I see no reason for senseless killing if the enemy is prepared to give up."

He had to be young, Ratchet decided. Young enough, and still idealistic enough, to believe that killing should only be done when no other option presented itself. Definitely young enough to be lacking in diplomacy.

Ratchet snorted inwardly, prepared to refuse, before wondering... how much more damage could he do at close quarters?

With a carefully doctored expression of nervousness on his faceplates, he raised his hands and stepped forwards.

* * *

Thundercracker sighed in relief as the medic carefully approached. There was no need to worry about disarming him; the most dangerous tool a medic ever had to hand was a scalpel. And that couldn't cut through thick battle armour.

He signalled for the 'Bot to turn around and place his hands behind his back. His prisoner obeyed silently. Handcuffs secured, the jet ordered the hunters to escort the captive to the nearest camp.

"But-" one tried to object.

"You'll be paid on arrival," Thundercracker stated, leaving no room for argument. They were disgusting grounded models who only cared about the next payload. He'd realised shortly after joining his faction that very few of them actually believed in the ideals like he did. It was a blow to realise most of them were in it for the carnage.

He took off and transformed midair to rejoin his trine.

:Mercenaries annoying you again?: Rainrunner asked.

:No more than usual: Thundercracker replied, taking point and leading them back to base.

* * *

"Should've been around here somewhere," Sideswipe said, craning his neck to get a better look around the many corners. "These streets are a maze!"

"Only to someone with your pitiful sense of direction," his twin replied. "Take a model of perfection, and he'll know exactly where to go." Sunstreaker paused. "We need to go that way." He pointed up a darker street, with high buildings on either side.

Sideswipe ignored his brother's excessive ego. "You won't be able to see the shine of your paint job in those shadows." Translation from twin-speak: 'You sure? I don't like the look of that.'

Sunstreaker half-smiled in apology. "Some things have to be sacrificed." He made sure the tone was perfectly pitched to get across his meaning: 'Sorry, but we're in this together.'

* * *

They were a group of five. It was quite the honour to be considered that dangerous, Ratchet thought off-hand. He'd deactivated the cuffs seconds after the tetrajet had left, but it hadn't been the right moment. If he timed it right, he could get rid of all five 'Cons before they got to him.

His main problem was that the trine were periodically sweeping overhead to make sure they made their destination. And once he was inside the camps... Ratchet had heard enough stories, Pit, he'd treated enough survivors to know they weren't anywhere he wanted to go.

Then he saw them. How the mercenaries didn't was anyone's guess; red and gold didn't exactly blend in.

His worry increased a notch when the red one winked at him. He then proceeded to nudge his partner, and gesture to the trine overhead. Doing so exposed his red insignia; Ratchet supposed someone was smiling on him to make the new mechs Autobots.

The golden one only looked his way after Red fell still, but there was a challenge in his stare. Ratchet brightened his optics once, to show he'd understood- something- and he thought he saw Gold snort. The darkness was making expressions hard to discern.

On cue, the seekers' engines whined as they passed over again. Only, one of them didn't make it; Red had affixed himself to the underside of its wings and was clinging on for Cybertron. Unable to support the extra weight, the seeker crashed two streets away.

Ratchet stood there with the mercenaries, gaping.

_That _was their idea? Of all the plans of _turbo-rats_- if he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it.

* * *

"'Cons, straight ahead," Sunstreaker whispered.

Sideswipe tapped his brother's arm once for confirmation and switched to their private link. :What strength?: He relied on his brother's info to be accurate, as Sunstreaker relied on him to keep anything off their backs.

:Five grounded, trine overhead.:

:Could be fun.:

:Looks like they have a prisoner. Comms kid was right about that message.:

Sideswipe risked a glance forwards and hissed in disgust. :They captured a medic? How brave and skilled they must be!:

:Come on, there's no point watching our backs. We know where most of them are now.:

Point accepted, Sideswipe crouched beside his brother, just in the shadows. Somehow- maybe he had a specialist optical range for surgery, or something- the medic made optic contact, and briefly looked surprised. He covered it quickly enough for even Sunstreaker to be impressed; he could feel mild admiration through their bond.

Anticipating a good fight, Sideswipe winked. He then returned the bulk of his attention to Sunstreaker. :Just keep them busy.:

:Why do you get all the fun?:

:Because, my dear golden harbinger of destruction, I fancy your odds against seven are greater than even my own. And I'm the one who isn't so weighted down by wax that a jet-pack can't lift him.:

:I've got denser armour!: Sunstreaker shot back. :And don't call me that.:

:Come on Sunshine, they're about to fly over!: The golden twin growled and locked eyes with the prisoner. Just stay down, he tried to say with a glare. Stay out of the way and it's less likely you'll get hurt.

He saw the medic's optics brighten slightly, and snorted. What did the medic think he'd said?

He had little time to consider as Sideswipe had already flown into action, taking out the leftmost jet and crashing it a way away. While the other two regrouped, Sunstreaker fired a couple of shots in their direction to keep them momentarily distracted; his first priority had to be to get the medic out. Mechatarian he certainly wasn't, but it benefitted _him_ to have somebody competent in the injury zone back at base.

The split second attention to the sky had been too long. He grunted as one of the groundlings smashed into him, taking the two of them to the ground. Sunstreaker head butted the mech and followed up with a knee to the crotch plate. He felt plating buckle and laughed. Gladiators fought dirty; it had become a part of his warrior style, too.

The groundling howled in pain before being temporarily offlined by it and Sunstreaker shoved him off. He rolled himself the same way, trying to avoid the laser shots being fired by the group now their friend wasn't in the way.

He heard the distinct sound of tetrajet and fired randomly at the sky; by the lack of cursing, he hadn't hit anything. He looked carefully over the prone body of the mech he had downed and saw the odds evening; Sideswipe was back. Just them and the enemy again, like all the best times.

Just them and... His brother's urgent demand was unnecessary as Sunstreaker realised how badly he'd fragged up.

:Where's the medic gone?:

* * *

He wasn't a veteran to battle, but even Ratchet knew not to take your mind off of the immediate threat. As Gold turned to the sky, he broke off his restraints and stomped on the ped of his captor. The mech stumbled and Ratchet tore free. He fired a shot point-blank into the mech's chassis, knowing his weapons weren't powerful enough to permanently offline. He then ran for the alleys, uncaring that he'd leave Gold behind with the rest of them. He needed to think a moment, and why was no one chasing after him?

Peeking at the battle again, he saw Gold go down. Ratchet winced in sympathy.

With a new, larger threat, the mercenaries seemed to have forgotten him. Well, that worked for the medic. He hunched low, and debated where to intervene. Red was still out of the picture, but Gold was under heavy fire and he heard the jets finally orientate themselves again and return to fight.

His weapon charged as he decided where best to intervene. Aiming carefully, he was gratified to see the blue jet dodge, barely, and slow his speed to hunt out this new threat.

"He should have disarmed me," Ratchet muttered. He hated to do it, but he took his second shot and the target didn't dodge in time, reactions slowed as well as his speed.

* * *

:Thundercracker!:

:Don't you dare, Rainrunner. Just find out who shot that and take them out!: With great difficulty, Thundercracker avoided a totally disastrous landing. :We can't afford to have them drop all of us- what would Lord Megatron say?:

:Lord Megatron could go frag himself-: the transmission was lost to static and Thundercracker heard the sounds of transformation and screaming. He transformed himself and looked to the sky. Rainrunner was in her root mode and falling fast, taking out several floors of a high-rise building. Then, even worse, the screaming stopped.

:Rain?:

No reply.

:Boltstriker!: Belatedly, he tried to contact his other trine mate, the one taken out by the red hellion at the start. Faced with static, he accepted the worst: his trinemates were down and out for the moment.

Cursing all the way, Thundercracker pulled himself to his feet and resolved to track the shooter on foot. He had a score to settle.

* * *

Sideswipe paused from his pummeling of a groundling as he noted the absence of both tetrajets. He traced the shots responsible to their origin, and found another alley. The city was full of them, it seemed.

:We have a newcomer to the fray, Sunny!: He sent. :Even appears friendly.:

:If he's shooting the other way, that's all I care about for now!:

Sideswipe renewed his attack with vigour. There was only one left, after all.

* * *

His 'rescuers' were having no trouble with his former captors. Ratchet noted their bulk and modified weapons systems, and surmised that somebody had got his comm, and they'd been sent to help from the frontline base his comrades had hopefully reached by now.

Seeing the last mech fall unconscious, and having taken care of the Seekers, Ratchet prepared to move and introduce himself properly and, as much as it grated, thank them for their intervention. He hated owing debts to anyone.

The pair looked to the alley as his ped scraped along the ground. He raised a hand in greeting, but froze when in return, Gold raised his cannon. Couldn't they see he was on their side?

"Not the greeting I expected. No respect these days." He muttered. Then he started shouting. "I'm the local CMO, you slagheads! I sent the comm for help!" They didn't appear to believe him, as the red one also armed himself. "Put down the cannons!" The situation was beyond his control, and he didn't much like it.

He froze in shock when Gold actually fired, and Red did nothing to stop it. His optics suddenly flashed with pain, and warnings.

It didn't take a second to realise the pain was coming from behind, and the golden mech's shot had missed him.

* * *

This city had so many alleys; it was driving Thundercracker insane. His unseen attacker could have fired from any of them and had probably moved already from wherever that was. With his trinemates' consciousness still absent, his rational thoughts had fled and he was simply out for payback.

It was blind luck that he stumbled across the occupied alley, more so that the medic didn't hear him and stayed facing the other way. Beyond that figure, he could see the hunter team unconscious and the two Autobot frontliners turning to find their charge.

His luck had apparently run out. The golden mech had a perfect view of him from his angle. He had to act quickly. Revenge on the red mech, the one who'd brought down Boltstriker, was out of the question. He would have to be content with the medic only.

In one smooth move, Thundercracker raised his weapon, sighted, and fired. At the same time, the golden mech did the same.

His desire to see the medic hit cost him his own injury. He waited until he saw the medic collapse before cancelling the sensors in his side and forcing his thrusters to ignite. Trailing energon, he took off and hoped his trine was still alive.

* * *

To have eliminated the main threat, only to have the medic shot down from behind... Sunstreaker roared and leapt past the fallen mech to fire at the seeker as it took off, in root form, apparently damaged by the wound. He didn't think any of his shots connected, but he prevented it from shooting again and further wounding their charge.

Sideswipe, meanwhile, had caught the medic and was attempting to stem the bleeding. The irony was overwhelming; shouldn't it always be the other way around? Medics patching up frontliners?

"No, you fragger! You offline, you die, understand!" Sideswipe was shouting at the medic. "You need to tell me what to do!"

Blue optics flickered twice before dimming. Sideswipe was relieved they were still alight.

"Re-routing energon flow." The voice from the medic's vocaliser was completely flat. Sunstreaker winced; it meant he was already in statis lock. It was unconscious sub-routines now keeping him alive.

But the mess of energon and coolant pooling from the wound was large enough by now that if it worked, Sunstreaker wouldn't mind what it was. Even as he watched, the flow became a trickle before stopping.

"Re-routing coolant flow." The same thing happened to the coolant lines. Although broken, they weren't spurting liquids, and the twins thanked Primus.

"I've no idea what to do, Sunny." The red twin looked up at his brother. "What do we do?"

Sunstreaker figured all they could do was get him back to base, where there would be mechs with basic training in field repairs. They hadn't taken the course yet, as new to the war as they were.

"Here," he shoved a cube of energon from subspace into Sideswipe's hand. "Get that down his intake and we'll get moving. We can't do anything but make sure he survives the trip."

Sideswipe cradled the medic to his chest. Bulky as the med-bot design was, it had nothing on the warrior frame, and he'd carried his brother's broken chassis enough times to be used to getting an injured 'Bot back to base. This time though, Sunstreaker took point and made sure they weren't running into more trouble, or more decepticons.

* * *

"Incomin'!" Jazz yelled from the monitors. "Looks like th' Twins an' one, sir!"

"Just one?" The commander certified. The recruit nodded. "Thank Primus, we can't deal with many more refugees. Our mechs haven't the necessary training to deal with the injuries."

"Bu'-"

"Most of the medics that came in the rush are in no state to treat anyone, Jazz. They're as bad, or worse in some cases."

:Sunstreaker to base. Request entrance for Twins plus one friendly, serious injury.:

The commander wanted to gasp, but in front of Jazz, it would have been very unprofessional. :Request granted, Sunstreaker.: He replied. He couldn't believe the yellow brat had actually followed protocol for once.

"Open the gate!"

* * *

It was a long way up from unconsciousness. As he onlined, Ratchet wondered why his very spark-case ached. If something had injured him enough to hurt it, his being alive was very lucky.

Numbers scrolled down his optics, telling him exactly why everything hurt and what functionality he had. It was enough- he couldn't have been the only one injured. Flexing an arm (and feeling relieved when it only protested minutely) he sat up. Or tried to.

He re-focused his optics to his wrist. Was that a restraint? "Why did I never get restraints in my medbay?" he muttered.

"Look Sunny- I think he's waking up!"

A clang. A snarled, "Watch the paint, fragger!" The unwelcome feeling of someone staring at him. Ratchet turned his head, and saw the frontliners from the alley sitting on the berth next to his. They were still dented and in Red's case, scratched up. The gold one was fidgeting, fingering the scuffs on his paintwork. Why hadn't- it made more sense to ask, Ratchet supposed. "Why haven't you been fixed? And why in the name of Primus am I restrained?" It was something that he at least sounded calm.

"Us?" Red glanced down carelessly. "We're minor damage. You, on the other hand," and he gave the medic an obvious once-over, "would have been scrapped without us."

Ratchet hid a grimace. He hated anyone putting their lives at risk for him.

The red mech continued without a care. "I figure you could've taken two, maybe three down before one got a decent shot off. And why do you even have weapons? You're meant to be a medic- least, that's what that guy said." He broke off to point to another medic doing rounds of the more seriously injured.

"Synion," Ratchet supplied. "Hey, Synion!" he yelled across the room, conveniently interrupting the mech's prattle.

The medic turned and caught sight of Ratchet, awake but on his back. "Glad to see you made it, boss. Was worried for a minute."

"Yes,_ boss_. I like the sound of that. So tell me Synion, why is your 'boss' restrained?" Ratchet rarely raised his voice, preferring other means of intimidation. Like every other time, it worked beautifully here.

The medic didn't know where to look. "Well- thing is- you see-"

The gold mech, who Ratchet had ignored until then, snorted. "Every medic we meet is either a weakling or a slagger." He concluded. "Both of which I see here."

Synion drew himself up to his full height. "I don't know who you're calling a slagger-"

"Good thing it wasn't you then, ain't it?" Red broke in, a practised innocent smile on his face.

The medic wasn't up to it. "Excuse me- I have patients to examine!" Synion all but ran off back to the 'safe' side of the room.

Ratchet glared at them. "Well, I understand why you haven't been treated yet. And now I can't get up." His glare intensified. Red actually looked worried for a second. "I'm going to do you a one-time deal. Get me out of these restraints and I won't tell anyone about the contraband you have in your quarters and subspace."

The worried look was easily replaced with confidence. "You don't know us at all. Certainly not well enough to know what we have in our subspace."

Sparring it was then. They'd pay for it later, when he could throw things. Now he needed to out-slag them. "Which means I can read you well enough to find what you've hidden in your rooms, much as you might try to stop me. I'm going to be set loose eventually."

"A promise of security isn't nearly enough to get on the bad side of every capable medic here." Red said. "Especially when, for all you know, we have nothing to hide."

Ratchet studied Gold. "My promise, and the combination to the lock on the paint storage facility, to let me up and get some tools. And you wouldn't be on the bad side of _every_ medic here."

Gold started to look interested. "Sideswipe-"

"No." Finally, a name!

"Sideswipe, is it?" He ran the name through his memory banks. No hits came up. "That would make you- Sunny, was it? I'm Ratchet." He turned to the golden one.

"Don't call me that." 'Sunny' growled.

"He's Sunstreaker," Sideswipe said. "No one calls him Sunny but me."

"Sunstreaker, then. Do you really want to walk around the base with your paint all scuffed up?"

Sunstreaker twitched visibly. Ratchet continued like he hadn't noticed. "And who fed me energon? I'm reading the remnants of a high-grade cube in my systems, with an illegal count of energiser. Home brew, was it? That's against the base regulations, too."

The pair looked at each other. Sideswipe sighed, and made a final compromise. "Your promise, the combination, and you'll fix us."

Ratchet blinked. "I would have fixed you anyway." What kind of medics had they met in the past?

"We mean, always. Whenever you're on the same base as us."

"Oh." That was flattering, in a way. "But why?"

"We've been watching the others work. But they're always glancing back to you, as if to check in. And most of them appeared to know what they were doing, so you've gotta be fragging fantastic."

Sunstreaker interrupted his brother. "You yelled at us that you're the CMO, so you're the best. I only want the best patching us up."

Ratchet didn't want to consider such a promise. But he made the mistake of locking gazes with each mech in turn, and something else passed between them. Something deeper. "You might have to wait for repairs." He said slowly. "I want to know exactly what's going on in here, and if there's anyone with worse injuries, I'll tend to them first. But I will fix you, whenever I can."

Sideswipe grinned. "Deal." He produced a sword from somewhere (the medic decided he didn't want to know) and cut through the restraints on his wrists. Ratchet then undid the ones by his feet.

"Got a repair kit?" The medic asked. His own tools would be back in the hospital they'd left.

Sunstreaker held out a box. "We found this on the table, hope it's okay."

"Thanks," Ratchet said. Then he frowned. It had to be said, but... "for everything. I'll pay you back one day."

"Don't we know it," Sideswipe said, still grinning. "The way it's meant to be."

On the 'safe' side of the medbay, a patient's monitor began shrieking. Synion rushed over, looking about frantically for his medkit. He'd left it on that table, hadn't he?

"Where is it?" he shouted. "Where the frag's it gone?"

Ratchet looked at the box in his hand, and back at the Twins. "You slaggers," he breathed, before getting off the berth and running to help his subordinate.

* * *

And hadn't that been the truth, Ratchet mused, settling down in his Ark office. Slagging pains in his aft, for centuries.

"Hatchet!"

His shift was over, Ratchet told himself. Ignore it.

They'd probably done something stupid, and deserved whatever was wrong.

He'd promised. "Fraggit," he growled. He got to his feet and stalked back into his medbay.

Only for them. Because in the heat of a battle, the bonds made could last a lifetime.


	12. Guitar Hero

Inspired by Amanda Palmer's alternate version of 'Guitar Hero'. 'Cept I've ignored everything but the creepy chorus bits, which is why it has nothing to do with playing games. Well, not quite in the way that she meant it. Mental games get free reign.

Pre- G1. Revolves around Starscream and Megatron, with Skywarp/Thundercracker cameos. I might as well call it Starscream's recruitment. That was the original idea. Actually, the original idea (the lighter bits) were from a different song, Charlotte Church(yes, laugh)'s 'Call My Name'. Then Amanda came on and made it darker. Grr.

Implications of TC/Warp slash. Fainter Screamer/Megatron.

I _really_ liked how it turned out in the end. Hopefully, you will too.

And lastly, shout out to: Starfire201, glownaif, ShiTiger, Maraluch and Gatoconbotas964 for the latest feedback on this fic.

Okay, not lastly. I want to shout out to: Medalis-Chan, thundercracker76, Shadir and cmdrtekk for their feedback on my other story, 'Conspiracy'. Thanks, guys! (this story has also been edited, 11/6/2012, if anybody was interested!)

Now, I'll give you fic, and apologise for the long author's note.

Edited 11/6/2012- again, barely changed: cosmetics, grammar. A horrendous naming mistake.

* * *

"Why are we here again?" Thundercracker muttered to his trine-mate, trying not to draw any attention to them.

Skywarp only raised an optic ridge and smirked. "Who cares about the _why_?"

They both looked up at the flashing posters, proclaiming 'reasonable rates' and 'variety of choice'. The only thing it didn't tell the casual observer was what the goods actually were.

But Megatron hadn't recruited them for being idiots.

They had been led into a brothel.

Oh, it pretended to be a nightclub. Or a dance house, with tastes running from formal to the exotic.

"It's a brothel." Thundercracker muttered. "What," the tetrajet had a very disturbing thought, "Or _who_, does he hope to find here?"

"More importantly," Skywarp muttered back, "How long do you think we have before he realises he's gone on alone?"

Thundercracker glared at him, only for it to have no effect; Skywarp's attention was stuck on the solitary femme on stage. He hit his friend upside the head and hissed at him "CPU on the job."

Sufficiently distracted, Skywarp sought a new target. He trailed a hand up Thundercracker's arm, before going for the wing. "What if my CPU was... _otherwise_ occupied?"

Long used to his trine-mate's ways, the blue jet intercepted the hand before it set his flying sensors off. There was only one way to deal with Skywarp. He raised the hand to his mouth and sucked on a finger. "Later, if you're good," he promised, voice husky.

Skywarp shivered, and Thundercracker grinned. Then he surveyed the room, glad they were seated in the corner, and it was mostly dark. While Skywarp had no sense of shame, he didn't want to be recognised in such an establishment, in the shady side of the city.

"I think Megatron's at the table closest to the left wall and the stage," he muttered. "Could it be a dancer he wanted to see?"

"If he wanted to get a quick 'face, he wouldn't've brought us two along," Skywarp pointed out.

Loud applause heralded the end of one show, and the femme took her bows gracefully before leaving the stage. On the other side of the room, Megatron sat up, optics now intent.

"Primus." The curse was said with feeling. Skywarp turned to his partner. "I think you're right. He _is_ here to see a dancer."

"But why?" Thundercracker asked. As one, both jets turned to the stage to wait for the next act.

* * *

"This is your last call, Lightdancer. Be on stage in one minute!"

How desperate was he that such cretins were allowed to order him around?

He abruptly reminded himself of the price on his head, which was higher if he was brought in dead. Right: he was _that_ desperate.

The shady side of Kaon was one place that any mech could hide. But staying hidden was the trick, needing skill and intelligence. Fortunately, he had both in abundance. It had been five orns since the price had been advertised. The priority on his head would be off with three more. Until then (or until he was found), he was stuck at the club.

He'd bribed the owner of the establishment into hiring him. He'd bribed the mech a bit further to say he'd been working there for three vorns. The customers didn't notice; half were permanently drunk and the other half were like him, on the run and avoiding any sign of the enforcers.

The main danger in this guise was that the rarity of his frame made him stand out. A seeker in Kaon. It made him highly sought among the groundling scum, but also highly noticeable. And while being noticed was normally something Starscream insisted on, in his current situation, it would probably bring him trouble.

Still. He was Starscream. There was nothing he couldn't survive, even the abject humiliation of being an exotic dancer for his energon. Minute up, he stepped onto the stage as the opening beat to his song played.

* * *

Skywarp froze. Next to him, Thundercracker gasped. It was lost in the roar of the crowd; apparently this 'Lightdancer' was a popular act.

Thundercracker traced the lines of the dancer's frame, from the black chassis, to the silver and blue highlights that shone brightly in the club's shadows. "He's a seeker!" he whispered. "What's he doing here?"

"He must be what Megatron's looking for," Skywarp whispered back, entranced. "He's completing our trine!"

"With an exotic dancer?" Thundercracker wondered aloud. "What could he bring to our cause?"

They both fell silent, watching the show. Onstage, 'Lightdancer' twisted sinuously, gracefully, using his wings to enhance his performance.

They only had one clear look at his face, when the lights flickered at exactly the right moment. Smooth and grey, even features. Ruby optics, proving his origins in Vos. Empty optics.

Skywarp pieced it together first. "He's bored. He's just going through the motions."

"What kind of seeker would willingly do this job when he clearly hates it?" Thundercracker couldn't imagine the indignity of it. There was a reason seekers were so rarely seen in similar institutions.

"Actually, I can see some of the attraction," Skywarp admitted sheepishly. Thundercracker shot him an incredulous look, and he hurried to defend himself. He gestured to the crowd. "All these mechs, watching him. Admiring him. Calling his name." It appealed to the pride that seekers were notorious for. "I can just- see it."

Thundercracker thought on it for a few moments. "It's one of the many differences between us, 'Warp." He loved his trine-mate, but the seeker was incredibly strange for his kind.

"Yeah, and they make things so fun-" Skywarp was replying, but Thundercracker wasn't listening.

His name. The dancer's name. A false name?

"He's hiding." Thundercracker realised. "He must be hiding from someone." He told Skywarp. "'Lightdancer' can't be his real name. It's practically tailor made for the stage; that's all it is. A stage name." He looked at the dancer again. "I'd bet my high-grade that's not even his original paint."

"Okay." Skywarp agreed for the sake of argument. "How does this help us?" He was trying to follow Thundercracker's line of thought, but couldn't see the relevance.

"Think about it! A false name, hiding, he's on the run, and to sink this low," Thundercracker gave his surroundings a look of disdain, "He must _really_ want to remain hidden. There's something serious after him. Enforcers, even."

"Hm." Skywarp mused. "A criminal would be of more use than a dancer. Less fun though."

Thundercracker growled. "For the love of- Would you get your processor out of the Pit for one night?"

Skywarp did his best to look wounded. "But what about later, darling?"

* * *

Ruby optics surveyed the club from the stage, and locked with an equally red pair. The owner tilted his head towards the backstage area and raised an optic ridge. Starscream dipped his head once, disguising the action by taking a final bow. Then he strode from the stage, wondering what the silver mech wanted him to do this time.

"Back again?" Were Starscream's first words as he met the silver mech in his changing room. It was the fourth time this particular mech had wanted a private show, and the 'dancer' still knew next to nothing about him.

"Indeed, your performance has been consistently pleasing, Starscream." His guest drawled, and the seeker preened visibly under the praise.

"What would you like..." Starscream stopped speaking. He hadn't told anyone his real name. Using his full speed, he had a small stun gun drawn and pointed in seconds. "How did you find me?" He demanded.

"Oh, Starscream," the mech chuckled. "It is not my intent to harm you. In fact, I want to offer you quite the honour."

"How did you find me?" Starscream re-iterated. If one mech had done so, others might follow. He was not as secure as he'd thought.

"I am unarmed, Starscream. There is no need to threaten me with your stunner."

"How. Did. You. Find. Me." He wanted to scream. He'd outlasted the immediate furor, even making a decent wage for once. Despite the constant danger, the constant humiliation, he'd truly thought he'd make it.

"Does that really matter now? You won't be coming back here after tonight."

Far from reassured, Starscream raised the gun higher. "You've said much, but have yet to prove anything. Nothing you've said invokes trust."

"I don't need you to trust me. I need you to follow me."

That gave the seeker pause. "What?" His outburst confirmed that the silver mech now had him off balance.

"You've wondered who I am, haven't you little seeker?" Starscream took no offence; he suspected most seekers were small compared to this mech.

"Once or twice," he admitted cautiously. His gun was wavering.

"Then wonder no more. I am Megatron, Lord of the Decepticons. I want you to join my forces."

Starscream dropped the gun. "You?" He breathed. "You're Megatron?" He was the only mech with a higher price on his head than Starscream, for entirely different crimes. Rebellion was considered far worse than mere murder, even when the victim was as highly placed as the Vosian Towers.

The silver mech smiled darkly. It revealed his fangs. "I see you've heard of me. That is good. So will you follow me, Starscream?"

The seeker said nothing.

Megatron began to frown. "Don't you want to be able to defend yourself? Tell your side of the story without prejudice? We are working for a better society, Starscream. One you want to be a part of."

Starscream laughed mirthlessly. "And now the threats begin. You want me on your side, and you won't have me choose to stand against you."

"Nothing will stand against me." Megatron made it a statement of fact. "Nothing shall oppose me and live."

_It was a warped compliment,_ Starscream thought. _To be sought by the Lord Megatron himself. To be given such an honour, and such an ultimatum._ His damnable pride was getting ahead of itself again.

Megatron accurately guessed the direction of his thoughts. "I can give you honours, and power. I can give you the ability to earn respect, to forge your own path without anyone telling you what to do." His voice was as gentle as it ever got, a low murmur. "I can give you back a trine."

Startled optics met his. "Yes, Starscream. I know your story. I know how the noblemech took your trine away, how he had them killed, so brutally. I can give you back a trine, and I can give you revenge. Now I ask for the final time- will you follow me?"

A _trine_. Megatron was offering him a trine, the thing all seekers wanted like they wanted the sky. Something he'd lost brutally but one vorn ago, due to a crime he'd not committed and had his only weaknesses punished for.

And he was offering revenge. A chance to get back at Cybertron and make things better, so no other seeker would suffer like that again.

But most importantly- _a trine_.

He never took long to think good things over. In the dingy changing room, Starscream sank to one knee and offered his neck to Megatron. "My Lord," he whispered, reverence in his tone. "What is it you command?"


	13. Next Contestant

Right, this one's actually a sequel. I can't believe it, myself- it wasn't planned.

It follows chapter 6, Crazy Chick, approximately one year later. For anyone who hasn't read it, Prowl and Jazz are together and Jazz was turned into a femme irreversibly by accident. He has gotten over the shock, and even consents to be referred to by the feminine pronoun.

It's still song inspired, 'Next Contestant' by Nickelback. A hilarious song- go listen if you don't know it!

So, there's a warning- (kind of) Jazz/Prowl slash. It's mostly attempted humour.

Shout outs: Starfire201, Dora Malena, Nuriko2, Ameri, amph74 and hecate-19, who was the first to put the notion of a sequel to CC in my head, even if I didn't quite follow what she hoped to see. *grins* Thank you one and all!

Edited 11/6/2012- cosmetics, minor plot points I was unhappy with, grammar.

* * *

Prowl frowned, and made another annotation to the datapad. It beeped at him. He glared, and turned it upside down. It made no difference. Right way up again, he poked it, before sighing. It was no good. He couldn't get it to work.

"Yo, Prowler." Jazz announced her presence as the door opened. She stopped short when she saw his expression. "Wha's wrong?"

Prowl looked away, muttering something.

"Pardon?" She had the dangerous lilt to her voice, and Prowl wondered if he should be preparing to dodge because she'd shoot him to get the truth.

Instead, he took the safer option, and gestured with the datapad. "I've got a slight scheduling glitch."

Jazz rose a delicate optic ridge. "Like Pit that's responsible for ya frownin' like that." Her hand twitched.

Prowl rushed to elaborate. "I have too many mechs and not enough shifts for all of them." He spoke in a rush, knowing she'd catch it all anyway.

"What?" Jazz clearly didn't believe him, but before he could prove it she'd taken the datapad from his hand and was studying it for herself. "Hm. What d'ya know?" She re-read the list of mechs who were 'on duty', but had no official shift to report to. "Prowler baby, why're all these mechs on double shifts?" The last name on the list was familiar. Suddenly, everything clicked. "Oh, ya didn'..." she breathed.

It was going from cute to obsessive. Every mech on double shifts had made a pass at her, even if only _once,_ during their stint on base. "Don' ya think ya're takin' this a bit far?" She wondered aloud. A particular name leapt out at her. "Lockjoint was nine months ago. Has 'e been on doubles since then?" No wonder the mech was perpetually tired. She'd seen him when showing her newest agent, Mirage, to the repair bay.

Prowl was getting in a lot of practice with his 'innocent' face. "He, and every other mech on this list, committed a serious infraction. I know how much it annoys you; you've been so good following the 'Don't Shoot Them' rule. They need some form of punishment."

She tried to find a hole in his oh-so-reasonable logic. "While it's very touching, it's only causin' more problems for ya in the long run."

Prowl considered that for a second. "Not when I mention my new plan for improved base security to Optimus Prime. We'll need at least three more mechs on shift at any one time." He smirked.

"Prowler."

The mech glanced up, met her optics. The gleeful light in his own began to lessen. "Ya shouldn' be workin' this late. I'm not annoyed enough that I want ya stayin' up all night _plottin'_." He could hear the smirk in her words. Still holding his optics, she stepped backwards, knowing the layout of the room instinctively. At the right moment, she leant backwards and landed on their berth. Propped up on her elbows, she lifted her head a fraction, a silent challenge. One leg pulled up to bend at the knee.

Prowl didn't think twice. Datapad forgotten, he was across the room and in the berth with her in seconds. As Jazz reached up to embrace him, a niggling thought at the back of CPU demanded an audience. Groaning, he dropped his head onto her chestplate, thinking of how she was _so_ kicking him out of the berth for this.

"What?" Jazz whined, falling back again. What now?

"I don't mind if in future, you invite them to a friendly spar." There was no need to ask who _they_ were. "By the very letter of the law, it's not beating up the recruits when they consent to it." He tried not to sound too hopeful; it would help his future scheduling plans if so many mechs weren't under sentencing.

Jazz gave him the level stare. Her hands were flat by her sides.

"Just thought you'd want to know," he offered weakly.

The stare didn't lessen. If anything, the intensity increased.

"Fine." Prowl got his balance and got off the berth. "How long for?" He tried not to sound too put out. By Jazz's expression, he failed miserably.

She pointed at the door with an evil smile. "Until I say otherwise," was the silky reply.

Prowl groaned, but followed her order. If he refused, she'd only hold the grudge longer: he knew from experience. That _hadn't_ been a fun month.

* * *

"Patch." The medic looked up and saluted the SIC. "I've got a query about your medical reports?"

The medic frowned, trying to think what could be wrong with them. "Is there a problem with them? I didn't notice anything unusual."

That was a part of the problem, Prowl noted ruefully. "Really? No increase in the numbers of mechs being sent for post-sparring repairs, and the like?"

"Nope. Last pair in here for sparring was," he checked his own record. "the newest spy, Mirage, and Jazz. A week ago. They were practising their spec. ops moves."

That was singularly unhelpful. Jazz wasn't beating the frag out of her molesters, why not? Mirage was so well brought up he wouldn't have made an annoyingly crass move on her anyway, which meant that they probably _were_ just practising, like the medic thought.

It also meant he had another long, frustrating week of scheduling to look forward to. Especially since he was still banned from his berth, and had no femme to distract him.

* * *

"-An' the most annoyin' thin' is that 'e never witnesses any o' this for 'imself, it's all second hand information, an' even though 'e does somethin' about it-"

"This has annoyed you for awhile, hasn't it?" Blaster broke in, grinning.

The femme on the other couch didn't look nearly as amused. "Ya're meant ta be ma best friend. What happened ta the compassionate audio?"

Blaster snorted in disbelief. "I don't think I remember the last time I heard something compassionate from you."

Jazz fiddled with her hands. "It's like 'e doesn' want anyone ta know we're together. I thought it wouldn' matter ta him, but it must 'cause he never makes any o' his revenge public. A coupl'a mechs suspect, but the rest shout 'em down with that '_nah, it's just that easy to frag him off_' slag. They don' even know _why_ they're on doubles."

"That's not because your Prowl's a subtle slagger. That's because they haven't got a full CPU between them."

Jazz laughed. "Yeah, true." She smiled at Blaster. "Thanks. I owe ya an afternoon o' slag an' rantin'."

Blaster laughed with her. "You haven't even mentioned the high-grade you owe me for this." Both knew he'd never make her pay up. "And one more thing?"

The femme nodded. "Go on."

Blaster put his very best look of 'long-suffering' on his face. "Warn me next time you kick him out of the berth. It makes him grumpy. How long's it going to last this time, anyway?"

Jazz created her own look of suffering. "As long as it takes, ma friend."

He recognised that look on her face. It was never a good thing. "You've got a plan, haven't you?"

But Jazz just smiled, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Prowl was once again left unsatisfied, in more ways then one. Jazz wasn't relenting, and when he'd asked Blaster for advice, the orange mech had laughed and closed the door on him.

He passed a couple of grunts in the corridor. They didn't notice him, too caught up in their gossiping.

"And did you _see _where he had his _hand_?"

"I expected her to deck him right there in the rec. room!"

"Nah, she's an officer, ain't she? Don't look good on their records, slag like that."

"Yeah, but I hear she was getting away with it a year back. _Shootin' _'em, even."

"I bet he's glad he didn't try it a year ago, then."

They passed out of audio range, and Prowl resisted the urge to follow them. There'd been another incident. Double shifts weren't enough anymore. He had to do something else about it.

* * *

In hindsight, this wasn't one of his smarter plans. Optimus Prime looked disturbingly intrigued, like Prowl had just promised him the secrets of Primus.

"I said," he repeated, "that I would like to request a personal favour."

"Go ahead," the Prime said immediately, wondering what this could be about.

"It makes much sense to me to set up a permanent security detail- one comprised of mechs I can trust." Prowl tried to get it all out at once. He wasn't sure how his request would be received. "We definitely have the personnel to do so, sir."

With that, at least, Optimus agreed. "Yes, I've never seen so many- _volunteers_- to work double shifts."

Prowl refused to squirm at the implication.

Eventually, Optimus made himself consider the plan. "I don't particularly care for it, I must admit," he said. "You worry far too much for my safety, Prowl." But why was this request personal?

It was only because he was looking straight at the mech that he caught the surprise, embarrassment, and was that a _blush_ that crossed his face? His confusion must have been on his own face, because Prowl looked down and spoke sheepishly to the floor.

"I think you've misunderstood, sir." Due to the quiet tone, Optimus had to lean forwards to catch Prowl's next words. "The security detail would be for Jazz."

Optimus blinked. Prowl refused to look up. "Oh." He said eloquently.

Minutes later, both of them were still having problems.

"Oh, forget it!" Prowl suddenly exclaimed. He got up to leave, but paused at the door. "Seriously. Please, sir? Forget it entirely?"

Beneath his mask, the Prime was smiling. "Of course, Prowl." It was surprising that for once, the base rumours appeared to be true. He wondered how long the couple had been together.

* * *

"I've got it!" Jazz announced to her new audience.

Blaster looked up from his intent observation of an empty cube. "Huh?"

Jazz studied her friend's room and the litter therein. "Primus, how much did ya drink?"

But Blaster was studying the other mech, entering behind his friend.

"Oh, tha's Mirage." Jazz said carelessly. "Say hi."

Blaster waved. Or tried to. His coordination was a little fuzzy. He settled for a verbal greeting. "'Lo, 'Raj."

The noblemech wrinkled his nose. "Charmed." He stated. He turned to the lone femme. "Aren't you going to tell him your new, vastly more cunning plan, oh fearless leader? Have I not also waited long enough to hear it?"

Jazz tutted, clicking her glossa at them. "It's slag like that that's why ya haven' got a promotion." She considered his pose. "That, an' ya're too impatient."

Blaster added his cube's worth. "Aren' you nobles mean' t'be good at pol- poli- polics and all tha' slag?"

Jazz turned to her friend critically. He frowned back at her. "Right, I'm cuttin' ya off for the evenin'."

"Aw, come on, pwease Jazz? One more?"

"Nope. Ya're no good ta plot with like this." She turned and left as abruptly as she'd arrived.

Blaster set his beseeching optics on the noblemech. "One more?" He asked.

Mirage sighed. "I'm going to regret this." He muttered. "I just so happened to bring a couple of cubes with me." He brought them out of subspace and placed them on the table.

Blaster smiled. "An' for la'er, on accoun' o' you being far. Less. _Slagged_ than I'm, my collec- my lot's in tha' box." He pointed at the rest of the high-grade energon he kept in his quarters.

"Well yes, of course," Mirage couldn't help but comment. "Who would want this to end so soon?"

Soon enough, he was far closer to Blaster's processing level. By that point, where was the harm in just one more?

* * *

The ensuing friendship was perhaps one of the base's biggest surprises. But considering how much time both of them spent around the sole femme assigned there, some conceded that it made sense.

Few realised how much of it she'd personally set up, before gleefully sitting back to watch the fallout.

* * *

The next morning, they arrived at the rec room together with matching glares and darkened optics. Jazz smirked at the signs of a classic, A (or high)- grade hangover.

"It wasn' me who had ta explain ma new, vastly more cunnin' plan. That was all ya, _'Raj._" She emphasised the nickname, continuing with a slightly softer tone. "I jus' thought ya needed a friend."

The noble attempted a glare, but the hangover took most of the power from it. It also prevented the spy, and the communications expert, from reading beneath the surface of her grin to the deviously happy femme beneath, basking in the glow of a well-executed set up.

"Yup, hungover's a good look for the two o' ya. A friendship made o' matchin' scowls." Jazz all but skipped out of the room, ignoring Blaster's parting curse.

* * *

This plan would be better than his last. Well, it couldn't be any worse.

It said something that he wasn't spending his time planning how to get back in Jazz's good graces. Prowl snorted, knowing from bitter experience he couldn't change her mind. It was practically impossible to convince the femme of anything, Prowl knew that intimately.

He was stuck until she said so.

But it had been a very long three weeks. He was starting to go a bit- _crazy_.

He pressed the chime of his CO's office door.

"Come in." The Prime looked up to see who his visitor was. "Prowl. This is unexpected."

Time had been good for the Prime. Last year, he would have out and said 'I didn't expect you back in here without blushing for months.'

"Yes, sir. But this time, my concern is professional."

"If it's still about the security detail-"

"No, sir!" The horror of their last conversation was enough for Prowl to overcome the horror of having interrupted his superior officer. "I have some concerns with the troops. It has come to my attention that they are not training to the required minimum standard. I would like to have the army put through testing to see what level they are at, and just how much they need to improve."

Optimus frowned. "Are you sure, Prowl? I haven't noticed any decrease in their performance on the battlefield."

"100% certain, sir. I have the data here." He placed a datapad on the Prime's desk.

The commander looked at it and sighed. Another one to read. Or he could just agree. "Very well then Prowl. I assume you'll be overseeing the tests?"

"Of course sir." Prowl tried very hard not to smirk.

"Then you are dismissed. I have every faith in you to know what needs to be done."

Moments later, Optimus pretended not to hear the evil laughs from the other side of the door.

* * *

"Right then!" Prowl addressed the room at large. "Reports have come to my attention, that you mechs spend far too much time _flirting_ and not nearly enough time _training!_"

Oh yes. He finally had every single Jazz molester in one room, and Optimus's permission to do whatever in the Pit he wanted to them. He smirked. No one ever suspected a devious tactician.

The nearest mechs started backing away. They'd never seen the SIC so happy, especially in recent weeks.

"Pair off!" Prowl ordered. He had made sure there was an odd number of mechs in this session. "I want a good, solid sparring match from each and every one of you! I will be reviewing the security tapes later and anyone slacking off will be training in this room with me until they _rust!_ Am. I. Understood?" The paired mechs nodded, and one at the back of the room started trembling, wondering if he could make a break for it.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Go!" He yelled. Mechs stumbled into positions. Prowl made his way through the attacks to the lone mech, who was trying to convince his friends to make their fight a three-way.

It was Lockjoint. Prowl was smiling pleasantly now. "Aren't you the lucky mech? You'll be far ahead of this lot by the end of this session. I _promise_." His smile also promised energon leaks, cracked coolant lines, and a long stay in the medbay.

Lockjoint, realising this, whimpered, but nodded. "Smart mech." Prowl nodded at the one free space. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

"Prime!" Optimus jumped, but it was 'only' the medic.

"Patch? Do you have a problem?" He asked.

The medic was irate. "Order your crazy SIC to stop his new, _improved_ training program!" The sarcasm was obvious. "I haven't got the time nor the inclination to repeatedly repair the same group of mechs over and over again from what should be simple exercises!"

"He's sending them to the medbay?" He'd never noticed how obvious it was that Patch was one of Ratchet's students. Optimus suddenly had a strange thought. "Can I see the list of names?" As Patch transferred the names to a datapad, Optimus hunted out another one that Prowl had given to him 15 days ago. He compared the two with each other, and then with his memories of the latest rumours. He started chuckling.

"Prime! I refuse to see the humour in this!"

"Don't worry Patch, I'll have this sorted soon."

The medic gave him a furious look, and stormed out of the office.

Then Optimus sent for his third in command. He had a strange thought about who was _actually_ behind everything.

* * *

Jazz was just leaving when Prowl arrived. "Jazz!" She smiled, then remembered why she was angry with him.

"Prowl." She nodded curtly. "I assume ya have a meetin'."

"Wait." He caught her arm. "You're alright?"

She glanced down at his frame. It wasn't nearly as shiny as usual. "Ya're the one who looks like ya've been neglectin' things." Jazz suspected it was a common occurrence when she wasn't around to stop him working. "Where've ya been sleepin', anyway?"

"I have an office, remember? The desk has many uses, you might recall."

Jazz felt herself blush. Yes, she knew about the desk's uses.

"Huh. Well, I'll see ya around," she said vaguely, and walked off down the corridor. Prowl shook his head, and regarded the office in front of him. Why had the Prime summoned him this time?

"It's come to my attention that you must be under a lot of strain, Prowl." Optimus began. "I put far too much pressure on you, and with these extra personnel tests? You shouldn't have to organise all that. I'm going to order a halt to them- I shouldn't have agreed in the first place without more information. I want you to go down to the rec. room and attach this notice on the board."

Prowl blinked. "The rec. room, sir?" His voice shook slightly.

Optimus was far too amused by all of this. "You still avoid it? That really should stop, Prowl. It can't be good for your health."

"The core of my deepest, Pit-sent, paranoia-inducing nightmares have an unhealthy obsession with that room, Prime. You know that. Besides," and Prowl actually shuddered then, "_They'll_ be there."

The Prime shook his head. "Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are fine warriors, they'll fit in soon enough. They are also only the latest excuse in a long list of excuses for your avoiding the place. Go down and put up the notice, please?" It wasn't a true request, they knew. "It should only take a few minutes."

Prowl looked on in horror. "You said it. You _had_ to say it." He snatched the notice from the desk and glared at his commander. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, send a search party. They'll have dismembered me and hidden the pieces."

* * *

Prowl studied the door. It was only a door. But it was what the door represented that frightened him.

It opened from the other side, and Blaster and Mirage came out. The orange mech winked at him, but Prowl ignored the strange action as he heard someone shouting. A very familiar someone.

"If ya don' move that hand, mech-"

Jazz!

"-I'm gonna shoot it an' save the Decepticons some trouble!"

"So you're saying you didn't think about my offer? It still stands, you know." Lockjoint! Did the mech learn nothing from his fifteen days of torture-turned-punishment?

Prowl growled. That was _his _femme!

He entered the room, all fears forgotten, and spoke coldly to the astonished grunt. "I do hope that's not your hand on _my_ femme." He glared pointedly at the offending object. "For your own sake."

Lockjoint snorted, but removed the hand. "Really? She don't belong to no one. Sir." The pause was deliberately insulting.

Just like that, Prowl relaxed and smiled. "For the first time, I think we're in absolute agreement. She doesn't belong to nobody." He looked straight at her. "She belongs to _me_." He grabbed Jazz in front of the whole room without a care. Then, without warning, he brought their lips together. Jazz moaned unabashedly at the contact and wrapped her arms around him.

If he'd been capable of it at that moment, Prowl would have smirked. He wasn't the only one affected by their time apart. He casually reached a hand down to brush her aft, as if to wipe away all traces of the other mech.

They broke apart when Blaster deliberately hitched an intake. Though Prowl wasn't letting Jazz go. "When did you get back?" He asked. He thought he remembered them leaving, it was how he'd heard Jazz in the first place...

A deep suspicion took root in his CPU. He looked down at the femme in his arms, and she smirked impishly at him.

Later.

"Our room, now," he said in her audio. She smiled, optics bright, and proceeded to lead him out. After all, her annoyance had now been addressed, and completely eradicated.

* * *

The atmosphere of the rec. room left in their wake was somewhat surprised. Blaster and Mirage ignored it all, leading a third mech, Lockjoint, to a side table.

"So, what do we owe you?" the orange mech asked.

The grunt wanted a high price. "For getting on my SIC's bad side? _Repeatedly? _At least three times what you're paying me." He saw the noble open his mouth to object, and headed the mech off before he stared. "No, I'm not asking for more. Just pay up what we agreed- the ammunition and the high-grade."

Mirage begrudged giving over his special plate-piercing sniper rounds far more than Blaster begrudged his high-grade. At least the orange mech could make more.

"Drop a cube in on the boss when you leave, would you?" Blaster asked Lockjoint. "He had as vital a role to play as any of us." At the others' looks of confusion, he clarified the statement. "Who d'you think got Prowl in the rec. room at that exact moment?"

Lockjoint blinked at the new information. "Was the entire command staff in on this?" He asked, incredulous.

"No." Mirage answered shortly. He wanted the grunt gone.

"But come on, tell me. Who was the mastermind to get one over our tactician? It kinda makes me nervous, to say the truth." Lockjoint clearly _wasn't_ worried, but like the rest of the base, he _was_ a true gossip.

"Think about it, man." Blaster explained patiently. He grinned at the mech. "Who's this been all about, right from the beginning?"


	14. Harder To Breathe

Holy hell. This one grew on me. In fact, I don't think 'grew' really covers it.

Blame Maroon 5's 'Harder to Breathe' for the most part. My god, has that song driven me crazy while I wrote this. Also, Amanda Palmer's 'Guitar Hero' because this is a sequel of sorts- it can be read as a standalone, but fits in nicely.

If anyone can guess the line that started this story, I'll write a request for them- song, pairing, or storyline. It's in the dialogue of the fic- I couldn't resist.

Let's see. Mentions of violence, actual violence, language (I think) and character death- but you could say he deserved it. Kind of. Overall, not one of my most cheerful. Genre: suspense centered on the wonderful Starscream. Also featuring Megatron and Soundwave, Thundercracker, Skywarp- a general decepticon cast, really.

Live action starts as the decepticons wake up on Earth, but with flashbacks. I've twisted G1 to my own ends, and it goes a bit (only slightly- not much extra-decepticon plot mentioned to alter, really) AU from there.

Shout outs to: lokimademedoit, Starfire201, hecate-19, Kitsune no Uchiha, chickentyrant5 and Crystal14. Sorry for taking longer to update this time!

Enjoy.

-*-

_Systems loading._

_Sensors loading._

_Motors loading._

Starscream shot out of the blackness with a barely contained yelp. He immediately had one weapon aimed and primed, and was bringing the second to bear.

"Woah, Screamer!" A purple jet-form was backing away slowly. Skywarp? It had to be. "No harm done. You need to get scanned so we can get away from this wreck."

Starscream stood up and looked around. Orange walls, and so many mechs lying around offlined. He didn't put his weapons away.

"Starscream!" He certainly recognised that, at least. He turned to Megatron, preparing to ask what had happened. He was unprepared for the fist that sent him back to the floor. Starcream stared up in shock at his commander. Why had his Lord hit him?

"Quit staring at me like a fool and move! You're wasting time!" Megatron strode away before the jet could say anything in reply.

He looked around again, but nobody seemed surprised. Were they used to Megatron hitting them?

He didn't recognise many of them at first glance, but thought the dark blue mech might have been Soundwave. The telepath must have changed his alt-form. He suddenly turned and looked straight at Starscream. The jet shivered. It was still creepy, despite his knowing the mech's talent since Megatron had introduced them.

He followed the general exodus outside and appraised the local area. Dust and rocks. Sporadic organic life. "This isn't Cybertron," he said slowly.

"Ever the sharp one, aren't we Screamer?" Starscream looked back to his comrades. A blue jet (Thundercracker, by the sense of humour) had made the remark before launching himself skyward. Thinking quickly, Starscream scanned one of the other jets and copied their form. Then he took off after them, speeding ahead to follow Megatron directly. It wouldn't do to get lost behind a bunch of mechs he didn't know too well and who didn't appear to like him too much.

As they flew, Starscream ignored the comments and bickering of his trine mates and came up with a list of questions.

Most importantly: Who were the mechs they were traveling with? Decepticons, he knew, but none of the recruits he'd processed recently. He didn't recall their movement gaining much support outside of Kaon, so where had they come from?

He disliked having such an unknown crowd at his back. Who knew what they were thinking?

Actually...

His gaze fell on Soundwave again. He probably knew. The red visor brightened visibly and Starscream looked away. He had no desire for another optic-lock.

Where were they? Megatron had mentioned launching an expedition to seek more energon. Cybertron had only minimal resources left. But the launch wasn't meant to go ahead for years.

Or was it?

Starscream looked at the facts.

He had woken up on an unknown ship, surrounded by mostly unknown mechs. Half of them had been left behind- presumably warriors of the council sent to detain them and bring them back to Cybertron. Starscream felt no sympathy for them, abandoned on their ship in the middle of Primus only knew where.

And now they were running away. The Megatron Starscream remembered never ran away from a fight.

_The Megatron he remembered. _That was key, his scientist's CPU was telling him.

The jet mused it all over, finally coming up with two most likely outcomes. One: Megatron had prepared everything, even his crew, and readied for launch in secret. He'd then had Starscream abducted from his berth to get the jet aboard. But that made no sense- the commander had to know he'd follow where Megatron led.

Or two: there was the much less comforting outcome, that Starscream hadn't wanted to be so likely: somehow, some_when_, he'd lost a whole chunk of his memory banks. Megatron hadn't had everything prepared, but it had been built in the countless years (decades? Centuries?) he could no longer remember. The crew were recruits, most likely from that time period too.

It was the most logical answer, that made sense of everything he'd found so far. Starscream winced inwardly. What could make him lose so many years worth of memory?

And that fist, courtesy of the commander. Starscream wouldn't forget that. What had changed the Lord Megatron so drastically? And why did everyone treat it as though it was normal?

-*-

"Is there anyone out there?"

Starscream glanced over his shoulder. He swore he'd heard something, but there was nobody in sight. It was foolish of him to go out alone in this part of Kaon, but he couldn't disturb his Lord so late, and his trine was... somewhere else. They hadn't bothered to tell him.

Starscream smiled bitterly. The only good thing about his joining the decepticons was Lord Megatron. He was the only thing that made the choice worth it. His trine, something he'd wanted so badly at first, had become something he detested, always with the nicknames and the shared glances and _they wouldn't let Starscream in_. They had been a pair before he came along, and they stayed a pair first and foremost. They followed his orders only because he had the Lord's authority behind him.

The rest of the command staff he'd met were as hopeless. Shockwave, while similarly loyal to Megatron, was devoted at a level Starscream couldn't fathom. The Lord was a mech worth following into battle and into the New Age of Cybertron. The cyclops mech, however, felt for the commander far beyond that. It was something Starscream found disquieting, with how he'd previously mistrusted those in power.

Soundwave was a telepath. End consideration. It was all he needed to know, as far as Starscream was concerned. There would never be more than a working tolerance between them. His CPU and his thoughts should be his own, not for anybody else to hear.

Starscream shivered, not entirely from the cold. The idea of someone in his CPU was horrifying.

There! That sound again.

He turned around fully. "Is there anyone out there? I am Starscream, second only to the Lord Megatron, and I demand that you show yourself!" Declaring his allegiance to the Kaon underground scum probably wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, but Starscream figured he'd survive. He always did.

There was nobody there. The street was dark and cold, but empty.

The sound was still behind him.

Starscream slowly stepped backwards until he was against a wall. "I'll ask one more time-"

-*-

It was the last thing he remembered.

Starscream onlined with a jerk. It was becoming a habit. His quarters were rigged with so many sensitive detectors that a particularly powerful current outside the Nemesis could bring him out of recharge. It was paranoid but practical; something was different about the Decepticons, something was very different from what he remembered.

When had they become so savage? Waiting for the next battle with relish, caring only when they were in the middle of the carnage?

It was almost exactly what Skyfire had said to him, and he'd had no time alone with the shuttle to correct him. Yes, he'd changed since the mech had been buried in the ice, but not nearly as much as his old friend thought. To his CPU, there was only a few centuries between their ages, rather than the millenia everyone else suspected.

Starscream was proud to be a decepticon and everything it entailed. That included a stunning ability to deceive, to act the part he needed to. But he disliked what the word 'Decepticon' had come to represent and hated the picture those 'Autobots' painted everytime he faced them on the battlefield.

He thought he'd put most of it together, and the resulting scenario scared the frag out of him. He continuously dreamed of his last pre-Earth memory, returning from a meeting with an energon supplier. Kaon was dangerous, he knew that. Something must have happened to him then.

But why could he remember nothing _after _the event? It fit with no pattern of memory loss that he'd ever heard of.

Unless... Starscream pondered further. Was crashing on this useless rock was the event? Was the other date a coincidence? That would mean there was nothing strange or sinister about his situation at all.

Starscream didn't believe it. He'd found the human phrase, 'Pull the other one,' bizarre, but apt. If there was nothing suspicious, dig deeper.

Something had happened to him back then.

Someone had tampered with him on the deepest level.

Primus help them when he worked out who.

-*-

"-is there anyone out there?"

"What- Unhand me, now! What are you doing?"

-*-

Another day on Earth preceded by the same dream. But it had been slightly different.

Something had happened to him back then. He was sure of it. The dream was growing longer, revealing more and more.

His memory was slowly coming back, he was certain. He'd take himself to medbay and have his CPU examined, but knew Hook would tell Megatron the results.

He hadn't forgotten Megatron's treatment of him. And it got worse; degrading words and harsh punishments for things that Primus himself couldn't change, let alone a single seeker. He'd become the scapegoat and laughing stock of the decepticons during his forgotten years.

Nonetheless, he'd learned his lessons well. Megatron would regret every taunt, every shot with his fusion cannon. He had taught Starscream to be the best. To take revenge at his own pleasure. He had taught Starscream the power of knowledge- never to show his own hand until he'd certified everyone else's thrice over.

The pleasure would come. Starscream only had to wait, and he'd know what had happened. He would tell himself the truth eventually, but he had to be patient.

Before joining the decepticons, he'd survived five months as an exotic dancer. Surely that was evidence enough that he could do anything?

-*-

"What are you doing? Unhand me! That is an order, decepticons!" He didn't recognise any of them, but they all bore the Lord's decal.

A new figure stepped out of the shadows. "Their orders are from a higher authority."

Starscream tried to make out the new mech, but everything was fading. Boxy, darkly coloured. Or was that the blackness creeping in? He'd been drugged with something as they restrained him, or maybe he'd just been hit too many times on the head.

"A higher authority," the new voice repeated, as though he wanted to make sure Starscream heard it. Heard it, and remembered.

-*-

Him. It could only be him.

_Him?_ Could it be- was it- him?

_Megatron _had done this to him? It was- ?

Starscream's thoughts were stuck on a loop. Even though he'd come out of recharge gently, every wire in his frame was taut. His CPU wouldn't drop a single thought.

Megatron had done this?

Other thoughts tried to creep in. Why? Why had Megatron done this to him? The jet felt like screaming the question out loud, only his tentative-at-best self control keeping him silent. He disconnected his vocaliser, just in case.

Starscream sat up, supporting his head in his hands. He'd been the SIC, the loyal air commander. When, in all his time with the decepticons, had he done anything to make the Lord doubt him?

Why had Megatron betrayed him? What had he done?

It wouldn't have been unprovoked. If Starscream had risen up against Megatron, prompting some sort of punishment, (never mind that it was now a regular occurrence, in accordance with their expectations) there would have been something huge behind it; something large enough to shake his absolute loyalty to the mech. Something even Megatron couldn't hide in his past, if Starscream dug deeply enough. It had to be something he would remember; he must know, since he'd been punished for it.

Could he wait patiently now for it to be revealed? Starscream doubted it. It was time to go hunting.

Maybe while he searched, he could find out what Megatron had actually done to him, but he doubted it. The most hated fact of the whole situation was that Starscream couldn't remember what his punishment was, not yet. It was a story unfolding piece by piece every time he fell offline, and he was getting tired of just waiting for the next chapter to come to him as it chose to. He was growing short on patience; it was time to start actively searching.

He thought he remembered enough to know the basics: Starscream had found something. Megatron hadn't trusted him with it. Megatron had something done to him. Case over.

It explained the physical punishments somewhat- it was the tyrant's way of keeping someone he considered treacherous in line.

But there was always the nagging doubt in the back of his CPU.

Starscream allowed himself a bitter laugh. Megatron shouldn't've needed any of his punishments- he had plenty of memories to know that. The gunformer had become his entire world- his guardian, his teacher, even his lover for a very short time. He couldn't believe that any action terrible enough existed, to make Starscream rise against him back then.

Starscream would have followed him, even to this pitiful planet, without question had Megatron not betrayed him. No punishments needed. No fists, no fusion cannons, no taunts, no dressing downs, no rants on his clear inferiority and no threats to his very life! An order would have done it- a simple request would probably have been enough.

How times changed.

Because now, with all of the punishments, the measures to keep Starscream- well, not in trust, but certainly in control- he no longer trusted his lord. He no longer considered himself Megatron's to control. The flier reveled in the irony.

All the Lord had promised to teach him.

Starscream looked at his room, the embodiment of his paranoia. What had he learned?

-*-

_The frag with this!_ Starscream fought the encroaching blackness like he'd never fought anything in his life. "Whose authority?" he snarled. "Tell me whose!"

The ringleader, for the newcomer had to be in charge of the operation, smirked nastily. "It's not for me to say." He let the pause linger. "You don't have the authority to demand details from me."

Starscream shook away the black spots on his vision. "But- second- Megatron- what?" He ended on a gasp as the mech he affectionately named 'goon number one' shoved a fist into his vocaliser.

"Now now, stop that." The condescending tone put Starscream even more on edge, if that were possible. "We don't want him harmed physically, do we?"

He felt his optics widen. It was involuntary, a reaction to what was his greatest, most secret fear. So secret that only Megatron knew about it- and he was informed under protest, only because Megatron _had_ to know each of his commanding officers' weaknesses.

"No."

He didn't realise he'd spoken until he heard it repeated like a mantra. "No. No. No, no, no! No, nononono no!"

-*-

The shouting woke him up- it was uncannily similar to the screams in his memory.

"No, let me go! Get him out of there before it floods out! No, the pressure could crush him, we need to get him out!"

Starscream checked his quarters. No flooding. He wasn't in immediate danger.

Priority one completed, he ran the voice through his processor.

"I can't get through the force-field! Screamer must've made it warp-proof!"

Skywarp. Seeing as it had to do with what purported to be his trine, and he had appearances to keep up (and a tiny portion of his CPU insisted there was a slight affection for Skywarp, as the more friendly of the pair he'd been placed with) Starscream rose to see what the commotion was about.

He opened the door to his quarters, instantly regretting it as temperature sensors in his feet recorded the water on the floor was cold. He rose an optic ridge at the sight of Skywarp being restrained by Ramjet and Dirge, with Thrust looking curiously through the force field that activated automatically after an explosion. Luckily enough, that had been before too much seawater escaped the room.

His room. His lab.

"Oh, you didn't," Starscream breathed, slight menace creeping into his voice. Ignoring the worried shouts of the seekers who'd finally noticed his presence, he crossed through the force-field (a handy trick reserved for himself only, as its creator) and submerged himself waist-deep in the cold water.

He ignored the blue arm waving frantically at him from the other side of the room, and checked his storage shelves. No, the mixtures were still there. The idiots hadn't upset them. Starscream subspaced the volatile liquids to prevent further such scares and finally turned his attention to the trapped Thundercracker.

Starscream cocked his head, considering. "I want to leave you here, Thundercracker." He stated it as a fact. Only Thundercracker's arm and the top of his head was visible above the water. "To be crushed with the pain, _unimaginable,_ until your spark gives out." Thundercracker looked truly scared. That was nice; somebody believed him for once when he was actually telling the truth. The blue jet attempted to shift the heavy beams and furniture that trapped his entire left side.

"It would be sweet revenge," Starscream continued, as though his trinemate's life was not on the line. As far as he was concerned, his trinemates were already dead, and had been for millenia now. It was for mere appearance's sake he flew with the blue and purple pair.

Appearances that were deceiving. Appearances that deceived for a reason. Appearances that-

Starscream had to deceive them all. Slag it, he couldn't leave the mech to die, not without endangering his own existence. There was truly no sense of justice in the world.

He glanced behind himself and saw the yelling seekers had attracted an even larger crowd. "Fraggit," he cursed. He definitely had to save the jet now; the rational, _normal_ Starscream wouldn't leave a trinemate to die, would he?

He grabbed at the lightest beam and shifted it off of the hand trapped beneath. Another beam, and he had the left arm free. Thundercracker began helping in earnest, and the work went much quicker.

Unfortunately, the water was still rising; where it had been at Starscream's waist on entry, it was now up to his shoulders. He couldn't even tell where the leak was coming from; it had to be low down, or they'd have been underwater by now. The pressure was becomning unbearable on his delicate wiring, and must have been worse for Thundercracker, who had suffered for longer.

When there was only one beam left to shift, Starscream held out his hand to his trinemate. Still scared, Thundercracker took it and was hurled to his feet. He spluttered, trying to eject the seawater from his systems.

"Not now, no time," Starscream muttered. Pulling the mech close in the parody of a hug, he hissed into Thundercracker's audio. "Tell nobody. This changes nothing between us. You are a means to an end." He felt Thundercracker nod, felt the frame against his own tremble.

Everything would be fine. He turned so this time, the mechs waiting at the door would read his lips. "Hold on to me, or you'll be trapped behind the field."

He passed through as quickly as possible, given the hindrance he was practically carrying. As soon as he could get away with it, he shoved Thundercracker into Skywarp's arms.

"Seeker's room, one hour," he ordered. He would not let this pass without some sort of explanation. He hadn't forgotten that they were in his lab, a room they shouldn't have been able to access.

Skywarp acquiesced with a grateful nod and followed the grumbling Hook to the medbay to sort his partner out.

Excitement over, the crowd had begun to dissipate. Starscream dared to hope that would be the end of it all.

"Starscream!"

Hope crashed, burned and died horribly with just one word. It was a shame, because generally Starscream considered his name to be a very nice word.

Megatron stormed down the corridor, fury etched on every plate of his face. "Why did you not see fit to inform me of a leak in the hull of my ship?" He didn't give his second a chance to reply, sending him reeling to the floor with a well placed punch. The seeker whimpered, hand clasped to his cheek, and the disappearing crowd moved faster, so as not to get caught in the crossfire. Megatron was hardly finished. "Or are you so incompetent that when you wish to destroy me by blowing up my quarters, you target your own rooms instead?"

Starscream glared steadily from the floor. Appearances be fragged, he hurt and he wasn't rising to Megatron's bait this time.

"Starscream!" Megatron seized the jet by the throat and slammed him against the wall. "Answer me!"

He felt something in his vocaliser grate unpleasantly. "The situation was under control, Lord Megatron." His voice came out sharper than was ordinary. Megatron winced, and over his shoulder Starscream saw the outline of the resident telepath, the silent presence behind his lord. His anger surged, breaking his tenuous self control.

"I should have guessed," he hissed, ignoring his vocaliser's protest. "There was no time to inform you of the situation, mighty lord, but the pet spy you set on us constantly appears to have the job well in hand. I don't know why I tell you anything at all, when clearly your _minion's_ ability to gather information is far superior to my own." The hand around his throat tightened. He squawked, choking momentarily, before continuing. "And while we're on the subject of information, he appears to have misinformed you. Or did you not realise that it was Thundercracker who tripped the alarm and in all likelihood Skywarp who caused the breach?"

Megatron's optics burned with his displeasure. "I know the breach occurred in _your_ lab, Starscream. I know it was caused by _your _trinemates, and by_ your _equipment. Therefore, _you _are to blame." He sneered at the jet. His voice was as low as Starscream's despite the futility of the action; their only spectator had far more sensitive audios than either of them. "_I_ know everything I need to, Starscream. _I've_ always had all the information I need." With one last, scorching glare, he released Starscream and stormed back down the corridor.

Starscream rubbed his neck gingerly, feeling for broken components. He then became aware of the other mech in the corridor, who hadn't left with Megatron. "Well?" He demanded. "Shouldn't you be following your master?" Something was different about the mech, he thought.

Soundwave smiled, and that was when Starscream realised the mask was gone. "Yes," the telepath said simply. "I should."

There was a strange note in his voice. It started to scare the jet; the smallest tendril of fear took root in his processor. Starscream looked away, cursing his weakness but refusing to meet the other's visor. He heard footsteps, and hurriedly backed up, only to hit the wall again.

"Look at me," Soundwave whispered. Starscream didn't want to know how close the other mech was. A hand grasped his chin and tried to force his face up. Starscream refused to follow the movements. "Fine," the telepath said, "We'll do this the hard way. But you've always preferred that, Starscream. I_ remember_ that very well."

Before Starscream could even wonder what _that _was supposed to mean, with his CPU slowed and weakened by injury and pain, Soundwave had plugged into one of the dataports on the side of his neck. He tried to bring up his firewalls to block the intrusion.

"Now now, stop that," Soundwave ordered. Starscream heard it echo inside his head. Then the telepath _twisted_ in his processor and any protection was gone, like it had never existed. "Nowhere to hide now, Screamer. _Look at me_."

It was more like the telepath was looking into him. Starscream could control nothing, not even his motor functions. Any amount of time might have elapsed, when Soundwave withdrew and broke the connection.

"So, will you or won't you?" The telepath lowered the weakened jet to the floor gently. "What will you see in your dreams now?" Soundwave had realised shortly after the crash that the seeker was remembering bits and pieces from his program as he fell into recharge. The telepath knew then that the time was right, if he hadn't misjudged everything from the beginning.

Starscream came to in an empty corridor. His corridor, he realised belatedly. Just outside his quarters, and his lab. He sighed. His lab would need fixing before he could get any more work done in it.

"Although," he murmured, running internal diagnostics, "not until I get myself fixed up first." Megatron must have been furious to have offlined him with injuries.

He heard a faint scrape from the other end of the corridor. He forced himself to his feet and asked, "Is there anyone out th- there?" His vocaliser choked on the last word. Starscream decided to ignore the noise and get down to the medbay. He'd get himself fixed, and then he had his trinemates to discipline.

-*-

"No."

The ringleader ignored his protests. "Hold him still. This will be more difficult as he resists."

Starscream planned to 'resist' until he offlined for good. It was preferable to letting somebody mess with his CPU.

"Look at me." The mech's voice was surprisingly gentle, considering what he was about to do. "Look at me now." He repeated the order when Starscream refused.

"Want us to hold his face?" 'Goon number two' spoke up for the first time.

Their leader sighed. "No. I should have guessed he'd do this the hard way." He prepared to link up with the seeker. "You would always choose the hard way, wouldn't you, Starscream?"

Starscream readied his firewalls. Being so scared of intrusions, he'd made sure they were of the best quality.

The mech linked up with him, plugging into a dataport on his neck. Then- nothing. He had no defense. "_Nowhere to hide_," the mech whispered softly. It echoed, from being in the real world and inside his head at the same time. No, time wasn't the right word. There was no time, not in his head. Not when the other mech was doing something to him.

"But what about him?" Starscream heard the voice, but couldn't match it to anyone he remembered. "We just gonna leave him like that? Here? Hey, you're just leaving?"

Here? Where was he?

Kaon. The energon supplier. His CPU filled in the blanks. Megatron's supplier. They had to be responsible for this. Fraggers had ambushed him, and now they were worried about it?

Starscream snarled, and struggled to his feet. They hadn't even restrained him. He found the two mechs staring in the opposite direction, but he couldn't see anything that would draw their attention. "Idiots!" He yelled. "You should have killed me!" He raised his null ray with great pleasure.

They didn't stand a chance. With two shots, the mechs were down. Starscream kicked one of their shells, and cursed. He'd been a bit too enthusiastic in killing them; he couldn't get any information out of them now. The Lord Megatron would be disappointed.

Lord Megatron? Starscream considered his revelation.

No, not Lord Megatron. He wouldn't be disappointed from the lack of information. He'd only be disappointed that they'd failed to kill him.

Starscream sank to his knees in the alley. "Why?" he muttered. "Why?" He screamed it into the night.

Why had Megatron betrayed him? Why did the Lord want him dead?

His processor was running hot, trying to sort out his conflicting emotions: pain, they'd done something to his intakes for sure; hurt, why had Megatron done it; anger, what had he done to deserve this; white-hot anger, he'd get Megatron back, he'd bide his time; pain _and _hurt, Megatron had wanted him dead; glee, he'd done it again, he'd survived; fury, he was always underestimated, even by his Lord-

Starscream's processor blanked out with a whine and hiss of broken machinery. After cooling down, it re-booted, focusing only on the last emotion it remembered. Fury. Fury against the L- against Megatron. Starscream could never call him lord again, not and mean it.

"How dare he betray me? I would have given him anything." Starscream forced the sadness out of his tone. Fury. He had to hold on to his fury. He would find Megatron, and cold revenge be damned.

-*-

"Megatron," Starscream hissed as he onlined. It was lost in the whirring of machinery.

Megatron had sold him out. Had him ambushed. Megatron had tried to have him killed.

It was inconceivable, even now. "Why didn't he just kill me himself?" Starscream asked aloud. His quarters were empty, so no one would hear him.

Whatever the reasoning, that was it. That was the ultimate betrayal. He'd tried to have Starscream murdered.

It was almost anti-climatic.

"But he wouldn't do it himself. He had someone else paid to do it." It grated now, and Starscream suspected that it had been one of the most infuriating things in his past also. "Didn't care enough to do it himself!" He picked up an empty cube, leftover from the previous evening, and threw it away from himself with a small scream. For good measure, he shot the container and watched it shatter.

But that was his mistake. 'Cold revenge be damned'? That was unlike himself, even when he was younger. Megatron hadn't had to teach him that; Starscream had always been one for 'run now, revenge later'. Megatron merely perfected something he'd already practised.

Yet, he'd gone after Megatron.

Obviously, he'd failed.

Something in his CPU had sent him after Megatron. How strange, how, _uncharacteristic_ of him. Starscream pondered long into the day and the following night.

Everything fell slowly into place.

-*-

"Autobots, retreat!"

The order rang out over the Earthern battlefield. Ground-pounders groaned and disengaged, and five seekers prepared to cover their retreat with laser fire and cluster bombs.

It was time. Finally, the time had come; they'd been victorious.

Starscream disengaged from his trine as he heard the order. The Decepticons were pushing their advantage, eagerly watched over by Megatron himself. The commander spared none of his attention for the skies, which had always been Decepticon territory.

:Screamer, what're you doing?:

:Screamer?:

Starscream ignored his air-only comm unit and cut his thrusters. He landed exactly where he had intended, ten paces behind Megatron's back. Even then, their leader didn't turn around.

Starscream saw Soundwave start as he noticed how close the seeker was to his master. Before the telepath could get off a warning, Starscream shot at the mech. Then he laughed at his own foolishness.

"I shouldn't have bothered," he said, drawing every decepticon's attention onto himself. Soundwave had dodged and Megatron had turned, finally noticing him.

Starscream steadied himself. It was now or never.

"Starscream!"

Before his leader could react, Starscream fired his null-ray again. He hit his target this time, and Megatron's fusion cannon shut down before the tyrant could bring it to bear on his air commander. Well aware that Megatron had more than one working weapon on his person at any point in time, he kept his other null ray trained on the tyrant's spark, and raised his first to point at Soundwave, as third in command and hopeless loyalist; the other dangerous authority present on the battlefield.

"If I'm going to do this, it will be with my weapon and my plan. I wouldn't tell anyone else to do this for me," he said softly. Even so, his voice carried. Megatron's optics widened, and he took a step forwards, aiming to intimidate the seeker into backing down.

"Starscream! You traitorous coward, what-"

Starscream matched him step for step, keeping the distance betweeen them exactly the same. He spoke over Megatron, raising his voice. "I will not stop now! I will finish it, once and for all! I, Starscream, will finish it where you, _mighty Megatron_, never could. I will finish what you started all those years ago. The shaodws of Kaon, Megatron, do you remember?" The question was ironic, but Megatron didn't seem to understand. Starscream kept his satisfaction private, refusing to deviate from his carefully-pondered plan.

Megatron laughed, but disbelievingly. "Do I remember? You make less sense than ever, Starscream! Kaon- what I started? What I- you are the one who invaded my private quarters and tried to assassinate me, without provocation or due cause!"

"Lies!" Starscream yelled in reply. "You had me ambushed as I returned that night! You didn't even have the decency to do it yourself! You sent two hopeless recruits to kill me on your authority, and you say I had no due cause! You manipulated me, betrayed me, bullied me and punished me simply for being loyal to you!"

Megatron gestured furiously to the null-ray pointed at him. "You call this loyalty? You've never been loyal to me, not even from the start! I know, Starscream! I've always known!"

"You've never known anything!" Neither mech was paying attention to the decepticons anymore. "You assume and demand and you've never had it right! You get all your information from your _minions _and you never know the real truth of the matter!"

"This is complete slag, Starscream," Megatron growled. "My sources have proved far loyal than you ever were! Are you trying to rally more supporters to your pathetic cause? Your actions are deplorable, even for a decepticon; I thought I taught you better. This is unacceptable! When we get back to the Nemesis-"

Starscream's jaw fell open in shock. "How _dare _you say that_ my_ behaviour's unacceptable?" He pointed both null-rays at Megatron's chest. "What did I learn from you, Megatron? I learnt the value of deception. The brilliance of a good lie. The worth of a loyal follower." His intakes were heaving, but he couldn't stop. "I was worth nothing to you, Megatron. Only it's taken me this long to remember."

Megatron was shaking with anger. He was being threatened by _Starscream_, the traitorous scumbag seeker who didn't have a spinal strut in his frame. "Drop your weapon, return to the Nemesis now, and I will let you keep your miserable life. For now." He knew his second in command. It was all show; Starscream would never work up the courage to actually shoot and harm him. Megatron turned away.

He was turning away. After everything, he was going to turn away. Megatron had given his second a clear shot at his back.

Starscream had guessed right. For some reason, Megatron wouldn't finish whatever it was between the two of them _himself_.

He was more than happy to be the one to finish it between them. And Megatron had been considerate enough to let him.

"Not this time, Megatron," Starscream said. His voice had gone flat. "I failed once and I learned my lesson. I learned it from you. Are you proud of me?"

He shot his leader in the back of the leg. It short-circuited the limb, made it unresponsive to the CPU commands. Megatron fell to his knee, and twisted back, shock and outrage written on his face.

"It will take a shot at point-blank range to offline you for good," Starscream mused, stepping slightly closer to the downed mech. "Two shots, probably."

"Starscream," Megatron said, his voice venomously quiet. "Stop this now, and I give you my word you will die quickly."

The seeker smiled. It was out of sync with the circumstances. "I've accepted my fate, Megatron. I'm going to the Pit for this, and it won't be a slow journey. But you'll die quicker. You'll die first."

Megatron felt the first touch of fear of his air commander. Limb by limb, Starscream shot him helpless, smiling all the while.

"What happened to you?" he whispered. "Starscream, what twisted your loyalties? What changed you?"

The seeker was the only one close enough to hear him. "What are you talking about?_ You_ changed first, _you _betrayed _me_ first," Starscream whispered back. "My revenge is very, very cold now. But Primus, Megatron. It's sweet."

With most of the decepticon army watching, yet ignorant of everything that mattered, Starscream shot Megatron at point blank range, once in the chest and once in the head. The huge chassis jerked once, twice, trying to expend the energy before it overran his spark. Finally, Megatron's shell laid still on the ground.

Only then did Starscream recall his audience. He looked from the body at his feet to the shocked and slightly fearful faces of the decepticons, searching each of them with his gaze one after another. He saved Soundwave for last, locking optics with the telepath and daring him to try anything in his moment of triumph.

It was Soundwave's actions, however, that caused the most surprise. The telepath retracted his mask slowly, and inclined his head. "My Lord Starscream," he stated, each word enunciated perfectly. The ripple of shock startled mechs out of stillness.

His words started a chain reaction. All around the seeker, mechs were bowing, or sinking to their knees and murmuring, "My Lord," "Lord Starscream," "My pledge to your leadership, Starscream."

Soon, Starscream was surrounded by kneeling mechs. Soundwave stepped up to the circle and was admitted immediately.

"Decepticons!" Starscream yelled at _his_ faction, _his_ decepticons. "Back to the Nemesis!" He wanted the necessary conversation in privacy.

Mechs got to their feet and ignited thrusters. Soon, there was only the two of them left. The silence stretched, until Starscream broke it.

"I should shoot you." Were his first words.

"You won't." Soundwave was confident, and it showed in his voice.

Starscream glanced at the shell between them. "Megatron thought that, too," he stated. Soundwave would recognise the threat. "It was the key factor in overcoming him." The power rush was starting to leave his systems. He'd been coasting on a high since the fight with the Autobots ended. Starscream shook his head. "Something doesn't make sense to me." He didn't know why he was telling this to Soundwave of all mechs, but he couldn't figure that bit out by himself. He had the nagging doubt in the back of his CPU.

Soundwave stayed ominously silent.

"Megatron was convinced that I started it, that I attacked him first. My memories disagree- he ambushed me in Kaon when I wouldn't even dream of rising against him." He thought it through slowly. "My memories tell me that it was him. I know they're uncorrupted. They tell the entire truth of the situation." He stared into the visor, and the truth was becoming clearer. "There's nothing wrong with my memories. I just never considered the possibility of somebody lying to me _in _them. I got too hung up on their being the absolute truth." Starscream broke eye contact and shook his head. "It was you. All along, from the beginning, it was you."

Soundwave started to smile, and reached out to touch Starscream's temple. The seeker didn't see the gesture, and jumped when he made contact.

"What are you-" Starscream froze. His optics flickered.

Inside his CPU, it was like a sunburst going off. His memories- _all _of his memories! A thousand extra memories he'd never dreamed of, that _couldn't _be his own!

_Megatron raising his head from their conversation, only to see Starscream bursting in, absolutely furious._

_Megatron holding Starscream down while the jet shrieked at him._

_Megatron looking horrified while he put his maddened air commander in chains._

_Megatron visiting him in his cell, asking what happened, why had he tried to kill his lord and leader?_

_Megatron frowning, and hardening his expression._

_Megatron letting him go, but only with many catches._

_Megatron hitting him._

_Megatron belittling him._

_Megatron keeping him at arm's length for the commander's own safety, and not knowing why he had to._

_Megatron never knowing what caused his air commander to change._

And then the memories of Soundwave began.

_Soundwave in the alley._ Starscream growled and tried to escape his CPU, but the memories wouldn't let go.

_Soundwave meeting him for the first time. The immediate hostility, and the measuring gaze in the visor that Starscream had never noticed before._

_Soundwave turning up on every new base he was posted to, sooner or later. Leaving after just one encounter._

_Soundwave in the corridor of the Nemesis._ -But that memory was after they'd woken up on Earth-

_Soundwave talking to Megatron, giving him updates on his second's movements and thoughts._

_Soundwave in the alleys of Kaon._

_Soundwave looking into Starscream's optics on the Ark, just after awakening. 'Look at me, Starscream. Program, activate.'_

The onslaught lessened and came to a halt. Soundwave removed his fingertip from the jet's temple.

Starscream put his own hands to his head, reeling from the influx of information. He looked up slowly, wary of more attacks. When it seemed none were forthcoming, he spoke. "You." He sorted through the memories in seconds. "It really was you all along."

Soundwave was truly smiling now. "Of course. Who else could it have been?"

"I can't believe I didn't see it." Starscream felt drained, empty. "It was a telepath in the alley, not casual bullies. You did something to me then, in my CPU. Made me forget everything when we got here. And Megatron gets all his information from you. He never considered the possibility of you lying." His optics narrowed. "You set me up. You set us both up."

"Yes." Soundwave was being completely neutral, sounding much like his monotonal self. "From the beginning, as you say."

"But why?" Starscream had- oh Primus. He had killed Megatron. He had killed _Megatron_, his Lord, the one who had saved him all those centuries ago. "Tell me why!"

Soundwave's smile turned bitter. "I can't believe you haven't worked it out already," he mocked. "I'm a telepath, Starscream. We were going to remain neutral, not pledging ourselves to either side. The council, while unhappy, couldn't stop us. Megatron, on the other hand." He laughed. "He was furious. Threatened us, but we all thought he couldn't really do anything. We thought we'd know about it."

"But I thought you were the only true telepath left?" Starscream interrupted him. "Where are you going with this?"

"Megatron underestimates what he can't understand. When he slaughtered the rest of them behind my back, he didn't think I'd know. He thought he'd keep it a secret, pin the blame on the council."

"Primus," Starscream assumed the rest. "Why did you join him then? If you knew the truth?"

"He tried to manipulate me. He thought he'd succeeded." The response was curt.

"That can't be all there is to it?" It was too short, too simple. "Why use me then? Why not shoot him yourself?"

"You were right to be wary of me, Starscream. Every time we met, I heard your fear." The telepath shivered. "That caught my interest. Then I saw your absolute loyalty to Megatron. I saw how he recruited you." Soundwave shook his head.

"What? Megatron saved me. He saved me, and you made me kill him! Why shouldn't I shoot you where you stand?"

"He saved you? From what? Think of the promises he made!"

"He fulfilled every one of them to the letter!" Starscream defended his anger.

"For Primus' sake, Starscream, think about them! You never bonded with your new trine. Until Megatron became the enemy, you'd never had the chance to use anything he'd taught you. You were exactly like me, manipulated, only you couldn't see it!" He was as impassioned as Starscream had ever seen the telepath. "Megatron was never worthy of your loyalty. He was never worthy of anyone's loyalty."

Silence followed his statement. Then Starscream broke it, sneering. "How noble of you. You got revenge on my behalf? That's why you used me?"

Soundwave snorted. "Don't be stupid. I got revenge on my behalf. You were necessary for it. Megatron would never have let me close enough to shoot him."

"That I don't believe. You were closer to him than I was, most of the time. Especially after your attack." Starscream objected.

"Close enough emotionally. Close enough to catch him off-guard."

"Don't even try that one." Starscream couldn't believe it. "My loyalty didn't make me blind, he couldn't've cared a glitch-mouse for me personally."

"But he cared for you a lot in the sense of a puppet he'd spent time making. A creation in its own right. All that work, gone to waste? Megatron wouldn't have that."

Abruptly, Starscream stopped arguing. He couldn't counter that statement, and it sickened him. Soundwave, sensing this, continued for the figurative kill.

"So I waited. I bided my time with him, and with you." He smiled again. "Revenge can be very, very cold, but even sweeter for all that. Truer words never spoken." He stepped away from the seeker. "If you want to kill me, go ahead. I'd die with nothing left unfinished." He raised his arms, empty handed.

Starscream was tempted. Extremely tempted. His arm twitched, but he fought the impulse.

Soundwave lowered his arms again. "You won't? I am surprised, I must admit."

Starscream smiled bitterly back at him. "Don't you realise? It's the ultimate irony. I can't kill the one person I would love to more than anything in the universe without signing my own death warrant. At the moment, I need you to cement my authority over the decepticons so they don't kill the upstart seeker. Authority that you helped give to me, so I assume you have a stake in it."

Soundwave laughed at him. "Who said I gave you anything?"

Starscream's doubt started nagging again.

"How much can you remember, Starscream?"

There were no obvious blanks in his memory, not anymore, but who knew where a telepath was concerned?

"Can't you imagine an ulterior motive?"

_He wouldn't even be able to tell._

"How much of your authority do you think is actually your own? I've been in your head so much, you can't stop me coming in. How many of your thoughts are your own, how many of your actions are mine?"

Starscream couldn't move, couldn't think, what if it was true? He froze, not wanting to think about it.

Soundwave stepped back once more, and saluted. "I'll see you back at the Nemesis, my Lord Starscream."

A puppet. He'd always been a lovely puppet. And worst of all, he'd never know whose strings he was dancing on.

-*-


	15. Iris

Hi. Sorry it's been a while. Actually, this isn't a new one, per say; I've posted this before, on transfictions, and finally got round to editing it so I almost liked it again.

Warnings for excessive fluff- seriously, my dentist is a rich man. Really excessive fluff. What with the song, I couldn't help myself. Add clicheness to the warnings too. And slight OOC, I think- it was one of my earliest pieces. I'd like to think I've improved since then.

So, inspired by Goo Goo Dolls, Iris. G1 verse, starring Prowl and Jazz- I know a lot of my stuff's about them, but what can I say? They're my favourite TF pairing.

Shout outs to: NightElfCrawler, iiskaa, Lokimademedoit, Starfire201, 13IsTaLkThEaKaTsUkI13, Imbri of the Moon, Veja, Chickentyrant5, Little Miss Molly, Sneer and Shadowtiger0502. Wow. That's got to be the longest shout-out list I've ever typed, you guys are awesome! I'm so glad at how well the previous shot seems to have been received!

So yeah. Sorry it's not brand new, but I'm still thinking of ficcage! Hope you like.

-*-

He hadn't even realised it was happening. In fact, if he had, it would have been stopped immediately. Anything undoable would have been locked in a box within his CPU under multiple padlocks and threats of imminent self-destruction should it ever be opened.

It was simply their way; many special ops members felt that being in love was tantamount to suicide. Leading them in that opinion was their commanding officer, Jazz. He had a very logical thought process about the whole thing, really: anybody that got involved with him was in danger, an easy target for the Decepticons Not to mention they would use that person to get to him; Jazz couldn't think of many Autobots (Optimus Prime, for obvious reasons, excluded) that they more fervently wished dead, hence the chance that anyone he fell in love with would be captured, used, and sentenced to an extremely painful death. And he'd be left alone again.

Jazz told himself he'd never let anybody get so close to him. It wasn't worth it, not worth someone's life, and the likely heartbreak. His mask was set. The flippant, crowd-friendly mech who partied with everybody and shared with nobody. No one would suspect, nobody could guess it was all a facade, to keep him safe from what he perceived as a far greater threat than the 'Cons.

Practice made perfect, so when Prowl joined Prime's unit, and began working beside Jazz, he thought nothing special of it. His mask was impenetrable, his regrets and pains buried deep, untouchable.

When Jazz smiled at Prowl, he put it down to his finding someone he'd want to be friendly with, even without his mask.

When Prowl smiled back, Jazz assumed he'd finally cracked into Prowl's repressed sense of humour.

--

Years passed, with more in statis. Smiles were exchanged and the mechs forged their strong friendship. Prowl realised what was happening very early on, when he admitted he was seeking the Porsche's company for reasons unrelated to working situations. Unfortunately, Jazz showed no signs of a similar realisation and Prowl resigned himself to being good friends.

Jazz felt comfortable in the tactician's company, both on and off the field (or in the office). They shared plans, high-grade, and headaches more times than either cared to count. Without realising, Jazz began going to Prowl when he wanted more, be it a sympathetic audio, a thorough training session or on rarer occasions, a simple hug. He forgot to be special ops Jazz and became someone a bit less happy, more jaded, and vulnerable. He got a nagging feeling in the back of his CPU but felt inclined to ignore it; he hadn't found anybody like this in millenia, and certainly wouldn't stop spending his time with them when it was so good to let himself relax around a person.

It was always going to be too good to last. That final clue, that Jazz found himself unable to ignore, was falling offline in Prowl's arms. He was completely defenceless during recharge, showing absolute trust in someone else for the first time in many years.

Frankly, it was terrifying.

--

Jazz had woken up from what had to be the best recharge he'd had since crashing on Earth. He only realised he was in trouble when Prowl shifted slightly behind him.

Air expelled from intakes became heavier on the back of his neck, his engine idled, his arms tightened slightly around the saboteur's waist. All classic signs of a mech coming slowly out of recharge. Classic signs that the mech trusted Jazz as much as Jazz trusted him. The potential there was... unbelievable, unthinkable...

Prowl felt the pressure on his armour shifting. It was enough to bring him out of deep recharge, but he onlined slowly. His limbs twitched, cables protesting the position he'd slept in. Optics were always the last thing to power up, so he remembered most of the previous night before he saw the evidence. It felt so nice, the weight on his lap perfect rather than overbearing... optics finally working, he looked into the visor of the mech in his arms. In his dreams. In his CPU constantly, taking over more than was tactically sound of his thinking processors.

Afterwards, Jazz wasn't sure if he'd thought too much about it, or not nearly enough. Just seeing that shy smile lighting up Prowl's face had made him want to give the mech other reasons to smile. His mask had been crumbling for months in front of his friend, there was no reason he could think of for any shields between them.

Jazz touched his lips to Prowl's, ever so gently; a fleeting sensation that ghosted across the Datsun's sensors long after Jazz had drawn back. He couldn't quite believe it, and the wonder on his face made the Porsche smile similarly to how Prowl had minutes before: shy, uncertain. Prowl leaned in and shared a second, longer kiss with the friend he was in love with. Jazz tasted sweet, and heavenly, and yet so vulnerable, like if you looked at him the wrong way, he'd fracture. Both mechs drew back again, still staring at each other, with Jazz's fingers digging minute impressions into Prowl's arms.

Then the comm link spoke up.

Jazz gasped, the first sound either had made that morning. CPU effectively set straight, he broke Prowl's grip on his torso and twisted away. He couldn't let himself fall anymore. Couldn't afford to go any deeper. It wasn't fair to Prowl, involving him with someone so broken, and so dangerous. He couldn't face the possibility that one day the tactician might be gone, and he'd be the one to blame for it.

Jazz did the only thing he could in the situation. He leapt to his feet, staggered back to the door and his hand scrambled for the locking mechanism. He couldn't break the gaze of the mech in front of him. Hearing the door chime, he whispered, "I'm sorry," before fleeing his friend's quarters.

--

Prowl sat where Jazz had left him, and stared at the door he'd run through. He could only feel two things: his lips tingling, and his spark breaking. Jazz had gone. He had run, didn't want to be with Prowl. Couldn't stand to be in his arms.

The comm chimed again. Prowl considered the chances: 76.4% that whoever was calling for him would come to his quarters next. Only an 18.7% chance that the Decepticons were attacking again; there logically hadn't been enough time to effectively regroup, on either side. 4.9% it had been someone different using his comm, and now Jazz wanted to talk to him, about what happened and why he'd acted like he had...

"Prowl? You in there?" Not Jazz.

_Probability wins yet again_. His shift started in 15 minutes. Enough time to grab some energon before reporting to Prime. Just enough time to pull himself together. His own mask, of cold formality, was reassumed. Already his CPU was clearer, his processors less cluttered.

_Jazz..._

Ruthlessly, Prowl shoved that thought to the back of his CPU and wrote a sham of a firewall to keep it there. It would do until he had the time to refine the program.

Waiting outside the SIC's quarters, Sideswipe saw a side of the officer he hadn't missed much, and wouldn't have wanted to see again. Prowl strode out, doorwings flaring, face set in a frown.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, wondering what had happened to cause the mech to revert to his old ways.

Prowl nodded, once, and carried on to the rec room.

--

Jazz didn't have a firewall for protection, but luckily, nor did he have to go on duty. After fleeing from Prowl, he had used most of his considerable skills to avoid the occupants and cameras of the Ark, to find the sanctuary of his own quarters. His intakes struggled to regulate themselves as he sank to the berth, wanting to lapse into oblivion and forget for one sweet moment, how good it had felt with the other's arms around him, a slight pressure, a gentle touch.

It couldn't feel good. Prowl was too important to the cause, to Jazz, to be targeted for the sake of his off-duty company. The Porsche curled up into a ball, coolant leaking from behind his visor. He stayed like that, silent and alone, for the rest of the day, with one thought lingering in his CPU where he couldn't shut it up.

_I'd give up forever to touch you_

_'Cause I know that you feel me somehow_

It felt so good. So comforting, so loving, that maybe, just maybe, the grief, pain and probable deactivation could be worth the short amount of time they would be together.

-*-

Prowl pretended not to hear the whispers behind him as he went about his daily tasks.

"What's up with him?"

"Blimey, 'Sides, what did you do?"

"When did he go back to being a moody slagger?"

Prowl ignored them as best as he could and went into his office, locking the door as it slid shut. He sat down at his desk and off-lined his optics, so he could bask in the short perfection that the morning had been.

_You're the closest to heaven that I've ever been_

_And I don't want to go home right now_

Just for a little while he could imagine that was every morning... until he had to wake up to reality.

-*-

Optimus paused at his SIC's office. He'd heard the rumours about the tactician's recent temper, and wasn't sure whether his company would be taken too kindly. That was, if Jazz wasn't in there already. Whenever the mech was in a funk, the saboteur was the one to get him out of it.

Unless he was the cause of Prowl's problems.

The Prime went rigid and considered this line of thought. Unfortunately, it was likely; nobody reported seeing Jazz since the previous evening, when the pair had left the rec room to do frag knew what. He didn't know the specifics of the relationship between his officers, only that they were close. He couldn't imagine them being lovers; he knew a little of Jazz's phobias, after all.

But then... his phobias. Prowl wouldn't know, not if the saboteur hadn't told him. And the Prime suspected no mech or femme would ever be that close to the saboteur. So if Prowl had... and Jazz had...

Prime sighed. His men were the best at what they did, no doubt about it. But sometimes, that made living with them that much harder.

--

The day passed. Night shift took over. Prime, who had stood many battles in front of Megatron's fusion cannon, never managed to face his second in command and ask why he was hurting.

Jazz hadn't been seen for almost a day. He hadn't left his quarters, not even for energon. Being a paranoid, loveless, head of special ops had its uses after all; he had at least three cubes in subspace somewhere.

He wouldn't keep thinking on what happened this morning. It was both impractical and likely to get him killed when he was out on missions (which okay, was just another impracticality). It had happened. He was in love. Nothing would ever come of it. End moping, end memory. Just another slot in his life.

_All I can taste is this moment_

Just another experience he never expected to happen, and would give anything to have happen again.

_And all I can breathe is your life_

He'd give too much to have it happen again. It would be the final blazing moments of his life that were the brightest and shortest.

_But sooner or later it's over_

He didn't want anyone else to die for knowing him, didn't want their life lost too.

_I just don't want to miss you tonight_

And yet he didn't want not to know anyone else for the rest of his life. Probing this thought deeper, he realised he didn't want to know anyone else but Prowl. He couldn't settle down for the evening without their nightly chat, a simple "how did your day go?" would be fine.

Jazz punched the wall in frustration. He didn't want to want this! He didn't want to be in love, to need another so desperately as to go to the pit itself to get them back.

But he wanted Prowl, and couldn't have him.

Jazz wondered if he wasn't already in the pit, and dreaming of things when he should know better.

-*-

_And I don't want the world to see me_

_'Cause I don't think that they'd understand_

_When everything's meant to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am_

_-*-_

He could do this. He could walk through that door and grin like nothing had changed. His mask was perfect, always had been.

He couldn't do this.

Prowl was on duty. He could face him, even with the memory of a kiss burning his lips, if there weren't others in the room too. He could suffer in silence, but smiling and joking, while inside he was crying? It was beyond even Jazz.

No. He had cried himself out yesterday. He would not let himself waste anymore coolant on what would never have been if not for his own stupidity and failure to see what was right in front of him.

_And you can't fight the tears that aren't coming_

He could do this. The door opened.

"Morning, Jazz my man. You weren't around yesterday?" Thank Primus it was Blaster. He couldn't get away with this with most of the Ark.

"Just wanted a day away from it all, my friend. Just me and the music, best partner a mech could ask for," Jazz replied. He sauntered over to his post and made it look like he was doing something.

Blaster nodded in understanding. "You need to get away from it all sometimes. Okay now though?"

Jazz hesitated. Even with his back to the Datsun, he could feel Prowl tensing.

_Or the moment of truth in your lies_

"Better than I was before." He said finally, slowly.

"We need some data analysed; Teletraan should have some details about a new nuclear station in Arkansas," Prowl cut in. Completely cold, sterile, like there had never been anything between them, not even friendship. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, Jazz would win.

"Searching for files," he replied, all business. "Found. One schematics, one factory plans and another recommendations from the human authorities. What gives?"

"They want our own recommendations on how to improve security from the Decepticons. Too many stations have been hit, they know they're vulnerable." The silence following his statement stretched, and Prowl fought the urge to fidget under Blaster's curious, if friendly, glances. "I'll be in my office if trouble arises," he said finally, turning and leaving the control room.

Jazz didn't watch him, hadn't looked at him once.

"Your turn, Jazz." Blaster said, no nonsense in his tone. "What _gives_?"

Jazz really, really, didn't want this conversation. "Nothing but the truth. What do you think's wrong?"

Blaster made the human gesture of counting off his fingers. "One: Prowl's temperament. He's snappy, judgmental and more willing to give out punishments than Ratchet when the Twins need repairs after Jet Judo. Coincidentally, this happens at the same time as you disappear for the day. Two... that was number two, actually." Blaster paused. The long list of reasoning in his head didn't sound so convincing out loud. "Ha! Three: I've never seen such formality between you two, Prowl and the rest of the Ark, yeah, okay, but you two are always behaving like a couple of lovesick sparklings. I conclude that you had a falling out, over something serious." Blaster looked pleased with himself. "Oh, and before you consider slagging me for being nosy, half of the Ark could work out what I just did with the right information. Which most of them have."

However, slagging the communications officer was not foremost in Jazz's CPU. He was still stuck on 'lovesick sparklings'.

"Blaster?"

"Jazz?"

"If I said I really didn't want to have this conversation, would you listen?"

Because of their friendship, Blaster honestly considered the question. "You know over 50 different ways to kill a mech in his sleep. I think I could let you keep your secrets a bit longer."

"Longer as in forever?"

"I don't know, Jazz. You won't be so fast or so quiet for the rest of your life." The stereo transformer tried to inject some lost levity into the conversation, well aware that normally the saboteur would be doing that. "Yes. I would like to know, but I won't press."

"Thanks, man. I really, really don't want to have this conversation."

A shadow of a grin crossed Blaster's face. "No problem."

If Prowl had returned to the room at any point, he would have heard an innocent chat about rock bands. However, much to the Porsche's relief, neither music lover saw him for the rest of their shift.

--

"Prime?"

Optimus looked up and invited the mech in. Prowl sat down in front of the desks and immediately began sorting through datapads. After two minutes of this, Optimus ran out of patience.

"Prowl? Was there a reason you came to see me?"

The Datsun visibly jumped. "I swear that datapad was on top of the pile," he muttered. He glanced up at his leader. "Oh. Now I understand what humans mean, when they say that some expressions defy explanation." Prime's face was frozen beyond 'surprise'.

Having extracted the appropriate pad, he handed it over to the Prime. "Jazz completed the analysis. The information just needs to be checked and approved by you before we send it on to the appropriate human authorities."

Optimus seized the opening like the Twins did a Seeker. "You've spoken to Jazz then? A few of us were worried by his disappearance yesterday."

Prowl's frame stiffened. He did not want to have that conversation. He refused to be impolite though, and tried to get out with some honour. "Yes sir, when he came on shift this morning. If you'd excuse me, I need to-"

"Prowl. Sit"

The mech obeyed his commander, mortified that he hadn't noticed himself preparing to leave. Or flee, perhaps was a more fitting description.

"Sir?" He still had the innocent card to play.

"You aren't small enough to give me wide optics, Prowl. Now, will you explain it to me, or do I need to start prying?"

"Do you want me to tell you when I feel you overstep the boundaries, sir?"

Despite current appearances, Optimus knew he was making his SIC uncomfortable. He wasn't entirely sure of what had happened. But his subordinates deserved to be happy, after all they had given up, and being together, as friends or even more, had made both Prowl and Jazz happy. As far as Optimus was concerned, the pain was worth it.

Prowl took his silence for a negative answer, sighed and slouched uncharacteristically back in his chair. "I just wish I knew why," he broke out suddenly. "I thought we were close, good friends! I hoped we could be more, or at least not let it affect what we already had, but evidently I was mistaken! He still doesn't trust me, after all we've done together!" The Datsun ran out of steam suddenly, like he had just come back into his CPU.

"You think Jazz was playing with you?" Optimus began cautiously.

Prowl laughed bitterly. "It makes it worse, but no, I don't think that's it. I think he doesn't know what to think. What to feel. The panic in his eyes, Prime... I never thought that Jazz, of all mechs, could feel so much fear, but..." he saw his leader's optics, solemn above his face mask. The facts clicked in his processor. "You knew. Know, about his reasons. Why. Slag, it makes sense. After all, you both wear a mask. His is only less visible." Prowl fell silent. "Thank you, Sir," he said, before rising and leaving the office.

Prime sat in silence for some time after his SIC left. He couldn't for the life of him work out how one was meant to respond to that. In the corridor outside he heard Bumblebee laughing, "You've got to show me more of this stuff, Spike! It's brilliant, but unlike anything we had back home."

He heard the young human reply. "I can't believe you never had anything like films on your world. With all of your technology, I'd've thought it would be something simple for a Cybertronian to come up with."

Bumblebee laughed again, harder. "We had films, Spike. But none of this 'romance/angst' you humans are so fond of." His voice became more serious. Prime reflected that none of his mechs seemed to be having a totally enjoyable evening. "Why do you write so much about love that hurts, if you believe it's one of the best things to happen to a person?"

Their voices were getting fainter. "I don't know, 'Bee. Sometimes we humans feel like we should bleed a little for our good things, just because it makes them that little bit better."

Prime didn't hear Bumblebee reply.

-*-

Prowl left his superior's office feeling much less confused, but still as hurt. Because, at the end of it all, it came down to the fact that Jazz couldn't trust him. Not quite in the same manner as he originally thought, but nonetheless...

He heard footsteps in the corridor ahead of him. Spying an unlocked door, he ducked inside and clicked it shut behind him. Prowl was not in the mood for another conversation this evening.

He picked up snippets of Bumblebee's chat. Really, he wasn't paying much attention, until the mech mentioned the human genre that was relatively unheard of prior to crashing on the organic planet. 'Romance/angst'. How did the humans have it so wrong, and so right at the same time, without even realising it?

_When everything feels like the movies_

Or he was just reading too much into the situation. That had to be it. Complete coincidence and he was hearing the talk completely out of context.

He felt the coolant dripping down his faceplate. He was... crying? Prowl didn't understand why he felt so strongly about somebody who refused to be involved, to the point of ignoring his feelings, because of a few incidents in the past and a creed that was outdated when Ironhide was young. He curled his hands into fists, clenching hard to distract his emotions before they completely destroyed his battle computer. As opposed to the mild frying it had been suffering the last few weeks.

He had energon dripping from his hands now. He'd knicked a few lines, not seriously, but they'd take a few hours to heal.

_Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive_

Prowl looked at the energon coating his fingers. All of a sudden, he could put it together. He understood what the humans were talking about, one of the few things they'd realised before the mechanical beings.

And he knew what he would do. Like pit he would give up now.

-*-

Jazz hadn't seen the mech for the rest of the day, and couldn't work out if it was a good or bad thing. He reached his recharge berth and settled back, off-lining his optics. He didn't want to see reality when in his dreams, waking or not, he could have what he wanted... didn't have to be scared... where his mask was only as real as its physical manifestation...

-*-

_And I don't want the world to see me_

_'Cause I don't think that they'd understand_

_When everything's meant to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am_

-*-

Prowl hadn't really slept, and the whole Ark could see it. They didn't, however, know the reason why, and the one mech who had an inkling wasn't telling. It was a small mercy when Teletraan sounded the alarm, despite the probable casualties that would be incurred by that night.

"Coordinates and numbers, Teletraan!" Prime ordered as he entered the command room. The computer complied and in 3D hologram, they saw the latest attempts of the Decepticons to acquire yet more fuel. To be fair, some of their raids were more than attempts.

"Megatron!" Prime hissed. "What's he up to now?"

"Sir?" Prowl cut in. With his leader's assent, he continued. "There is a mid-level electrical power storage centre not 4 kilometres from their place of attack. Why risk the potential instability of a nuclear power source, when there is a perfectly good alternative so nearby?"

"The electrical storage centre is unmanned. Less collateral damage, less human death and general chaos. What self-respecting 'Con would waste this sort of opportunity?" Jazz sounded bitter, not at all like his usual pre-battle fever.

Prime regretted that his saboteur was too much of a force on a battlefield to be absent. "Coordinates being transmitted. Skeleton crew stays behind, standard procedure. Everyone else, transform and roll out!"

-*-

When they arrived, Prime immediately took Megatron out of the main fight. They continued to have their own private battle, exchanging blows that could off-line a smaller 'bot.

Prowl took over command and directed Jazz, Mirage and Bumblebee to get inside the power station and shut down the operation. He covered them as they ran across the field, shooting into the flight paths of Seekers who would take their own shots at his comrades if he let them. Without needing to be told, the Twins were in the centre of the battle, already splattered in so much energon he could only hope most of it wasn't their own.

Bluestreak shot back to back with him, guarding his blind spot. They sometimes had to run and duck for cover, but until their three teammates got back successfully, they were outgunned and the Decepticons, unfortunately, showed no signs of leaving with this advantage.

:Mirage to Prowl,: his comm barked.

:Prowl here.:

:Objective accomplished.:

:Well done. We need you back out here as soon as possible.:

:Yes, but Jazz isn't looking so good.:

_Jazz was hurt. Jazz was injured, badly by the sounds of it. Jazz was-_

:He took the brunt of the damage in here, stupid prat. Acted as a distraction- albeit a very good distraction- so I could get Soundwave out of action. Unfortunately, I didn't act fast enough.:

:Mirage!: The infamous battle computer of the tactician wrenched control from the overly emotional CPU and let Prowl regain his composure. He cut across the mech's apparent shock-induced babble. :How badly is he wounded?:

:Ratchet wouldn't be yelling at him.:

_Frag_, Prowl thought. _Very serious then_. :Sending medic backup,: he commed, before closing that channel and opening another one to the aforementioned medic. Absently, he noticed Sunstreaker ripping a panel off of a seeker's wing; not from the primary trine, unfortunately, but the resulting crash was still spectacular and taking out another sky menace.

:Prowl to Ratchet.:

:If you're not being threatened by imminent deactivation, slag off!:

:Jazz needs a medic, badly. He's inside the building, took a beating from Soundwave and his cassettes. Mirage is in shock,: and Bumblebee, he realised- Mirage hadn't said anything about the small scout. What had happened to the Volkswagen?

:Frag! Stupid excuse for a chassis with the CPU of a toaster!:

Prowl took that as a 'confirmed, on my way,' from the medic, and cut the comm.

Looking around, he saw Ironhide, having 'fun' with some of the Stunticons. Why they weren't in their alternate mode became apparent when he saw the twisted lumps of scrap they were trying to protect; he'd taken one of them out already. It was lucky; First Aid was the leading medic currently back on the Ark so one of their own Gestalt teams was out of play before they even arrived at the scene.

Bluestreak made a sound of distress behind him, and Prowl turned to see what had upset the gunner. He saw Jazz being carried out of the main building between Bumblebee and Ratchet, at least the minicon was okay. Mirage was unseen, but on the battlefield that wasn't so unusual. Prowl saw another Stunticon knocked out by apparently nothing and grinned.

Life was much less complicated when he was running on battle-logic. Be happy when you succeed, curse when something goes wrong. No confusing extras.

Starscream had just shaken Sideswipe off his wings when Megatron called a retreat. Soundwave, after regaining consciousness, had appraised him of the Autobot's intervention in their latest scheme and now the Decepticons were getting worse injuries for no real gain.

:TC, 'Warp, strafing run. Form up on me.:

Starscream acknowledged their confirmation and flew in line with the Autobot medic. With him on the injury list, more Autofools would be out of commission for even longer than usual. When overhead, he dropped his last cluster bombs, while Thundercracker and Skywarp, laughing like an idiot, kept any sniper shots from hitting the air commander. He registered the dust arising from the impact zone and would have smirked, had he not been in jet form.

:Now, jets, after our almighty leader! Retreat with the last shot!:

Prowl noticed the jets retreating, saw Prime trudging wearily from over the adjacent hill and surmised that the Decepticons had fled with what energon they could. Post-battle reports and observations were flooding in, both from too-alert sensors and his comrades.

:2 human fatalities, reactor stable, no contamination of surroundings, 3 more fatalities found...:

His sensors indicate rapid weather change in five Earth minutes. He broadcasted this to all mechs concerned. :To lessen impact on wounded, begin returning to Ark presently.:

_Mobility in left arm down to 30%._

That was okay, Prowl shot with his right.

_Jazz severely injured._

_Oh frag, frag, frag._

Prowl's battle computer crashed, barely leaving him conscious. He was hit by a driving need just to see Jazz, to make sure he was stable, would recover fully. He stumbled to where Ratchet had marked his last position.

And stopped.

And stared, struck immobile by the scene.

Jazz was offline, but by the looks of things, that was a relief. Energon was pumping sluggishly from two wounds in his chest, and his leg armour would need replacing. Bumblebee was now missing his right hand, self amputated if the blow-torch in his other hand was any indication. Where was Ratchet? It was his duty...

His optics refused to believe the blackened mech form lying 5 feet away from the others was the medic. That would mean he was unconscious, and if he was unconscious, he couldn't fix Jazz, and then Jazz could very well bleed out from his wounds...

It couldn't happen. Prowl ran the last few steps to Jazz's side and took the torch Bumblebee had thrown at him, guessing the Datsun's intention. Damage control. The Volkswagen went to check on the medic and perform as much amateur surgery as he knew how, with his remaining hand.

Prowl welded together the ends of the split energon lines in the saboteur's torso. He then dug around in an arm and found another line that was still intact. He un-spaced his own medkit, an object he was now glad Ratchet insisted all officers and special ops carried. Prowl dug a needle into his own main energon line, setting up an energon transfer between himself and the Porsche to restore the other mech's levels to acceptable.

Bumblebee looked up from his own work. Ratchet wasn't badly hit; by some miracle, Starscream's last shot had missed, hitting a pile of rocks some metres away. Most of the dust was from the consequent explosion, blackening the normally white paint job. He was just in time to see his superior collapse half across the body of his friend, both unconscious.

:Bumblebee to Optimus Prime. Urgently!:

:'Bee, what's the matter?:

:Prowl and Jazz are unconscious, Jazz from an earlier injury and Prowl from his attempt at field surgery!:

:On our way.:

Minutes later, the Autobots were with the young scout. Optimus took one look at the situation and transformed. :Put them in the back, its the quickest way to get them back to the Ark. Ratchet might yet wake up en route.:

Loaded up, the party set off back to their base, having won the battle, but feeling so deeply worried it hardly mattered.

-*-

Luckily, Ratchet had woken up en route, and the first thing he did was unhook the energy transfer between the other two officers, muttering his opinion of Prowls' creators as he did so. Scanning the tactician, he deemed that so long as he was given a cube of energon and a decent recharge, he'd self repair in due time. The wounds were minor enough that the CMO ignored them in favour of his other patient.

Despite probably saving the Porsche's life, taking the welds off of the wounds so he could fix them properly was going to hurt like the pit. Ratchet set to with a grin, making a note to tell the saboteur exactly who to thank when he finally woke up.

-*-

Prowl onlined with a groan, and groaned again when he recognised the orange ceiling.

"Oh yes, Sleeping Beauty. Back again," Ratchet cooed. Prowl waited for the medic's other half to show. Ratchet didn't disappoint. "What in the Pit were you thinking?" He yelled, scowling now. "I did not demand that the officers carry medkits so they could come up with further ways to make my life difficult! I did not expect said officers to be so lacking in sense, or logic, one might say-"

"Low blow!" came the comments from the peanut gallery, also known as the mechs who had gathered to see Ratchet rant (which was incredibly entertaining when you weren't the intended recipient), or as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

"-as to be incapable of coming up with a plan that left at least one of the two of you functioning! Slag, Prowl, what were you thinking? Or were your processors hit with one of Starscream's null rays? Maybe I should take a look at them..." As the medic rooted around for his tools, Prowl sat up and hurried out of range.

"Ratchet? I'm sorry?" He offered, breaking up the tirade that had continued under the medic's breath. The peanut gallery sighed in disappointment; no one was being hit with a wrench today.

"You better be. Oh, and I would recommend relaxing those doorwings for the next few days. Seems some fool laid you on your back in Optimus' truck, and I had to realign them. Don't worry, they'll only hurt until you next transform and sort out the kinks."

Prowl wondered if the 'idiot' had been repaired with the utmost care and courtesy as a thank you. Then decided that it was an uncharitable, if probable, thought. Speaking of idiots... (again uncharitable, but clearly linking to his next thought).

_Jazz._

"Ratchet, how is-"

"Repaired and recharging. And I swear if you wake him up, I will not reboot your battle computer next time he fries it so completely. Turn it off if you're going to get emotional."

Understandably, it was the least of Prowl's worries at this point in time. "Can I at least see him?"

Ratchet heard the catch in the Datsun's voice and acquiesced, guessing the reasoning behind it. Not that he wouldn't tease the slag out of the two of them when they were both functioning properly, but by being nice now, he just got better ammunition. It was a win-win situation.

Prowl was up and across the room before Ratchet had finished giving consent. The sight of the saboteur, laid out on the med-berth, hurt his very spark. Panels were mismatched where Ratchet had replaced damaged predecessors. Some parts of his leg were down to bare wiring; Wheeljack was still making all of the needed parts. Prowl dragged his optics back up to Jazz's face. This, at least, was completely undamaged and so it wasn't as hard to look at.

Ratchet watched disinterestedly as Prowl whispered something into Jazz's audio, caressed the black helm once and left the room.

-*-

How did the human's put it? The light was calling them? _Frag that. Light means Ratchet, and wrenches._

"Don't even try it. I know you're online."

Jazz sighed, and powered up his optics. "Ratchet. What's shaking?" He asked with a forced grin.

"You infiltrate a building. You notice the nuclear power source to your right hand side, I presume. So how did the big blue Decepticon with the shiny energon cubes fail to attract your attention? I'd like to think it was a mistake, rather than sheer idiocy, but with you-"

"I played a vital role in an all-important plan!" Jazz protested. "Mission succeeded, didn't it?"

"When have Prowl's plans ever failed?" Ratchet countered.

That stung, for more than one reason. "You're suggesting I had nothing to do with the results?"

"And the wide-optics voice fails when the mech in question wears a visor. Little tip for future reference." Had it been anyone other than Ratchet, he would have been smirking. "By the way, the pain in your circuits is courtesy of that glitch-mouse of a tactician."

"Oh?" The saboteur was curious. Sounded like Prowl had Ratchet's ire more than he did.

"Ask him yourself. Better yet, thank him when the pain stops for using at least half a CPU for saving your life."

"What?" Jazz was completely lost in this conversation. But apparently the medic had used up his socialising quota for the day.

"Get out. Now."

"And here I thought you were becoming civilised." Ratchet raised a wrench-laden hand threateningly. "Okay! Getting out, your CMO-ship. Thanks and all."

Jazz almost made it. Just three more steps till he was out of the door. "Oh, and Jazz?" Ratchet called back. The Porsche turned around, in time for a wrench to the head. "A reminder for the next time you decide to take on Soundwave by yourself, with a processor absent enough not to realise that being shot with the pretty lights isn't a good thing."

Muttering under his breath, Jazz ran those last three steps to freedom.

-*-

Two days. It had been two days since he had got out of medbay, and he hadn't seen Jazz since. Seeing as the other mech had been unconscious, it hadn't been all that satisfactory of a meeting.

He should have been awake by now, surely? Maybe he should go and ask Ratchet for the latest reports and requests for supplies. Yes, it was almost the end of the month again. It was a plausible reason.

Prowl left his office and started down the corridor. He didn't get much further than that before he was looking up at the corridor's ceiling, eerily reminiscent of his latest awakening under the medic's care. Slightly stunned by the collision responsible for his current position, he said the first thing he thought of.

"We need to paint these ceilings something other than orange. They remind me too much of the medbay for comfort."

When the other mech (who hadn't gotten off of him, he noted absently) laughed straight into his left audio, he flinched involuntarily. It was a tad too close for comfort, especially considering whose voice it was.

"Your logic always comes up with the best one-liners. Hello, by the way. Glad you're okay after the battle. Hope you weren't too damaged. Envious that the Hatchet didn't do a number on your helm too. And thank you for-" Sometime while Jazz was rambling, he realised just why it wasn't a good idea to sit on a mech for a prolonged amount of time, and this mech in particular.

Things got uncomfortable. Fast.

Jazz gracefully rose to his feet in a manoeuvre Prowl wasn't even going to attempt. He did, however, take the proffered hand. It fit well in his. His CPU must still be out of it.

"Thanks." Prowl tried to dispel some of the awkwardness.

"You're welcome." He'd failed.

"Erm... seeing that you're clearly okay... I'll just be going back to my office now."

"You came looking for me?" Jazz was surprised. He wouldn't have expected that from the Datsun, considering how he'd treated him.

"Last time I saw you was when I had just awoken and our CMO was hardly forthcoming with time for me to see you. As that was two days ago, you still didn't look so good."

He still cared! Jazz could've broken into song, he was so happy. No. Couldn't afford to let Prowl know he was happy that he still cared. Besides, singing... despite what everyone was inclined to think, was not one of his strong points.

"I... thanks, Prowler." The nick-name slipped out before he could stop himself.

Prowl's optics blinked, the only sign of a reaction from him. "You're welcome," he finally said, softly.

Jazz felt the intimacy levels rising. He had to get out of there.

"See you around?" Due to recent circumstances, it was a question, not the guarantee that would have been spoken a week ago.

Prowl didn't hesitate. "Yes, Jazz. Definitely."

Jazz set off for his quarters, his step much lighter. For the second time that day, a voice called back his attention. "Jazz? I wasn't shot at in battle because I love you. They shot at me because I'm a tactician, and I'm good at what I do. You add no danger to my person, despite what an outdated code of yours believes. I'll be waiting until you realise that."

Prowl looked after the saboteur as he paused, listening to his words. Jazz turned his head back and nodded briefly. Well, he'd gotten through at least. And Jazz wasn't sending out a negative reply.

Prowl re-entered his office, spark much lighter now he had some basis to the hope he'd nursed since Jazz had kissed him, barely days ago.

-*-

Jazz didn't know whether to laugh, swear or cry. Any would have been appropriate in his current state of mind.

Just how the slag did the logical one end up being the emotional mech in the 'relationship'?

And why was it that when he felt almost okay with the situation, the tactician threw him completely for a loop again? (It was a plot, Jazz was certain.)

He refused to cry. He'd done fragging enough of that.

Swearing wasn't helping a whole pit of a lot.

Jazz laughed at himself, at Prowl, at his whole fragging messed up pit of a lifestyle. He was bordering on hysterical by the time his intakes were under control again. Lying back on his berth, he felt an annoyance under his spinal strut.

Hm. He'd left the datapad on his bed in his hurry to answer Teletraan's call. Jazz activated the surface, and read the words again, like he had this morning, when he'd found it outside his door.

_Just make it you and the music, Jazz. I think this song could help._

The music began to play again, the soft instrumental and the man's voice coming in for the first verse. It was so perfect, Prowl had to have spent most of the previous night looking for it- he had been tired that morning. Iris, it was called.

_And I don't want the world to see me_

_'Cause I don't think that they'd understand_

_When everything's meant to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am_

Prowl would be waiting. Jazz smiled softly, finally understanding what Prowl was waiting for.

-*-

Prowl was surprised when his door chimed. Few mechs dropped by his quarters at this time of night. Or, to tell the truth, period.

"Enter," he called from his berth.

Any greeting he may have uttered was lost when he recognised the Porsche calling on him. For his life, Pit, for Jazz's life, he could not have said anything at that moment.

Jazz stepped in and closed the door behind him. "I've been an idiot," he began softly. "All I've done with what's between us has only hurt more than anything that could have been done to us together."

Prowl couldn't disagree, and despite saying nothing, Jazz could see it in his optics. "So," he continued, "I thought I'd remove the mask. You should know what you'd be getting into Prowl, for real. Not the façade that I've had up for too long."

He turned his face away as his visor retracted, unable to look the other mech in the optics. Why wasn't Prowl saying anything? Had Jazz got everything completely wrong?

He felt Prowl's hand on his chin only seconds before he heard his voice. Prowl forced Jazz to face him, even as he gently said, "Jazz, you've never had a mask that could hide you from me. Not so much that I wouldn't love you without it."

Jazz's optics were so clear, so bright. Spark-breakingly beautiful. Prowl couldn't look away as he forced himself not to just pick the saboteur up in his arms and never let go. He couldn't believe it was so soon. Jazz wanted to be with him... could let himself want to be with him.

"You're sure?" He asked softly. Prowl didn't want Jazz to have any doubts.

Jazz nodded, slowly, and broke into his shy, vulnerable smile. Prowl felt his own smile growing, even as his arms wound around Jazz's shoulders. He felt Jazz clinging to his waist and moving closer until they were chassis to chassis. From there, it was a small step to claiming his lips, for the first time without fear of rejection.

In Prowl's opinion, it made Jazz all the sweeter.

-*-

Jazz came out of recharge slowly, his back plating unusually warm. He felt air on the back of his neck and stiffened involuntarily.

Prowl noticed Jazz had onlined, and silently panicked when he felt the saboteur tense. Jazz turned in his arms to face the tactician, unsure of what to say.

"Morning." After minutes of silence, Prowl figured it was as good a place as any to start.

"Prowl..." Jazz was still floundering. "Morning, I guess."

"Good morning, I dare to hope?"

Jazz laughed, freely. He didn't regret anything, he decided in that moment and answered, "Fantastic morning, Prowler. I woke up and for once, the dream continued."

Jazz stole a kiss before continuing. "See, I had a great recharge, and then got to wake up in the arms of this mech that I'd been dreaming of. And in this dream," Jazz leaned closer, snuggling into the crook of Prowl's neck, "this mech knew me. Me, not the mask. I'd let him in, and didn't regret any of it. I could let myself love him and not scream inside. Then," It was Prowl's turn to tense. Jazz knew he'd never said that to him before. He slowed down his words; he couldn't afford to mess this up. "I realised that the dream was real..."

He looked into Prowl's optics, lit up with joy despite the early hour.

"I love you Prowl. Dreaming has nothing on reality."

Prowl hugged the saboteur tightly. To finally hear it, from the one he loved... there was only one answer he could give.

"Until the end of our dream, our reality, Jazz, I'll love you too."

-*-


	16. Poison

Hi. Know it's a lot shorter, but I liked it better this length.

It's inspired by Tarja's cover of Alice Cooper's Poison. Either version is awesome, but hers adds a more sinister edge, I think. Ironically enough, the song always puts me in a good mood.

Right. It's a M/OP- I can't believe I actually got around to writing one. It's _(They've)_ been in my head awhile but I had writer's block over it. I hope it came out okay. G1 verse, but still on Cybertron. Not that there are any references, it's just the way I saw it.

Warnings for slight violence and angry angst. Just to offset the cavities of the previous post.

And shout outs to (my lovelies, thank you!): Bluebird Soaring, hecate-19 and Sergeant Duck. All and any feedback (key word: _feed _(as in, the author)) is appreciated.

-*-

There was low visibility on the battlefield, but it worked to Megatron's advantage. Nobody saw when he tackled Prime and threw him to the ground, instead of blowing his rival apart with his fusion cannon.

Nobody suspected when in retaliation, Prime kicked back and flipped them over, straddling the decepticon to keep him down and leaving his gun in the dirt where it fell.

Simply put, nobody knew for certain whether the rumours were true. Within a year of the war starting, Megatron had destroyed all records detailing their relationship, and most of the mechs who had known about them were dead. The younger generation of warriors could tell they had history beyond the endless fighting; they just couldn't tell exactly what that history entailed.

Prime was pinning his hands down. It was no longer about shooting each other to the Pit. It was closer between them, it _had_ to be closer between them. Megatron twisted angrily, but he couldn't get free.

"Release me, Prime!" He hissed into the autobot's audio.

"Megatron." Prime growled back. "Don't whisper, Megatron. Scream." He tightened his grip, grinding the components in Megatron's wrists together and breaking a few of the more delicate parts.

They were too well balanced. As much as Megatron couldn't do anything to Prime, it was taking everything the autobot had to keep him immobile. It was the worst kind of stalemate.

He resorted to fighting dirty. As he sent a pulse to his bondmate's spark, Optimus jumped. For a moment, his grip weakened- enough for Megatron to buck and send him flying. The decepticon got to his feet first, and subspaced his backup weapon with Prime in his sights. Sometimes, in the crystal clear moments with his energon boiling in the heat of battle, Megatron could imagine shooting his rival down without care, without their shared past dragging him back to his senses. Sadly, those moments never lasted long enough for him to pull the trigger.

The autobot regained his feet slowly; he was confident that Megatron wouldn't shoot. His expression was cold and detached. Megatron looked murderous, but Optimus had never feared him. He suspected he was the only Cybertronian alive safe from his bondmate's desire, his _need_ to kill.

In exchange, Megatron knew that if the autobots actually won the war, Optimus wouldn't, _couldn't_ let him be executed. He could tell himself that was why he had never killed the Prime. Megatron had always been a master of deception.

It was war. Neither of them was innocent. Megatron knew Prime gave as good, or as evil, as he got. When one of his autobots died on the battlefield, three of the decepticons starved in the energon shortage; since the start of a propaganda side-war, neutral merchants and vendors were much more willing to deal with 'friendly' autobots. Their raid today had been one born of desperation. Not, as Megatron convinced himself, any foreign desire to see his bondmate, to hear him, to touch _Optimus..._

With a roar, Megatron hurled away the weapon and punched his Prime on the cheek. He shattered the battle mask from his bondmate's face, shards falling unnoticed to the dust and dirt. He followed with a second punch to the other side, this time connecting with a faceplate. The Prime stumbled back, getting his guard up in time to deflect a third. They locked optics, and the barriers came crumbling down.

_Why?_

_But which why was his bondmate asking for?_

Optimus saw in Megatron a true, honest feeling that the corrupted government had to be changed for the better of all Cybertron. The self-proclaimed Lord didn't regard himself as evil. The pain of civil war was one gladly borne.

Everything was gladly given, because Megatron saw himself as the only one capable of doing what was necessary. Megatron had chosen his revolution over his bondmate, he believed in it so much.

Neither remembered him feeling such an amount of regret over that decision before. It was in his spark, even if it wasn't in his tone of voice or his optics. The control they had over the bond was tenuous at best when they were fighting, but never had Megatron deliberately opened it on the battlefield, until now.

Simultaneously looking back into him, Megatron saw Optimus's view of the truth; he would protect the planet and the people he loved from anything he perceived as a threat. Once, but no longer, the list of protectorates had included Megatron. The irony, Megatron could tell, was acknowledged but hugely unappreciated; the Prime now protected his loved ones from his most beloved.

Megatron was subconsciously looking for something. Anything; a reason, an apology, a surrender. He was disappointed.

There was no forgiveness in his bondmate's optics. The autobot's Prime, their leader, didn't forgive him for doing exactly what he himself would have done had their roles been reversed.

_Optimus_ had never forgiven him. Therein lay the only honest reason Megatron hadn't killed him- couldn't yet kill him.

They stared at each other from either side of the gulf between them.

Optimus spoke first. "Why, Megatron? Why do we really do this?"

As much as Megatron wanted to rave, to scream 'You just _saw_ why! You _must_ know why!', his darker nature forced him to pause. Then he smirked.

"You ask why, Prime? Come closer." It was a dare, a goad and a plea, all in one.

The Prime stepped forwards slowly, keeping just outside of grappling distance. But Megatron wouldn't allow that. He lunged forwards himself, catching his bondmate's wrists and holding them out to either side.

He leaned in, to make the moment as intimate as possible. Despite himself, Optimus had leant forwards too. "My Prime," Megatron whispered. He snorted derisively. "I want to _hurt_ you just to hear you _screaming_ my name." On the last word, he let go his hold and shoved the autobot away from him. Optimus stumbled back, regaining his footing just as their factions' fighting spilled into the small bubble in reality they'd created around themselves.

Intertwined through every look, every blow and every word was the history, the inadmissible half-truths they shared. Too much had happened between them to have it extinguished with a single shot. They had a chain holding them together, and in his most despairing moments Megatron thought it would exist even if they'd never met until the first time they fought on opposite sides of the war.

Unknowing mechs called the chain hatred. They called it morals, called it the difference between good and evil, wrong and right. Only the very old, like Ironhide, or the very astute, like Soundwave, knew they were wrong.

They knew it had once been love.

-*-


	17. Someday You Will Be Loved

Hi. Sorry it's been awhile.

It's mildly angsty, but mostly just general. I'm trying to get back into the transformers style again- depression seems to be the genre I start at. Fic was inspired by Death Cab For Cutie- Someday You Will Be Loved- beautiful song, when you listen to the lyrics.

Right. It's pre-Earth (G1), but the officers, at least, have met and served together. Forgive my utter lack of knowledge concerning the characters' pasts.

Shout outs go to Blu-Calling, Bluebird Soaring, dandyparakeet and Crimson Quincy. My thanks for all feedback, especially since I've been outta it for awhile. Anything forthcoming is as appreciated :)

Erm... enjoy?

-*-

"Quiet, fraggers! Let the mech finish!" The chuckles died down as Ratchet's glare promised pain to anyone who didn't comply. At least, that was the interpretation that made it through their high-grade infused processors.

"I can' believe you got caught," Wheeljack was muttering. "She let you stay anyway?"

"What d'ya take me for?" Blaster answered with a rakish grin. "She asked to join in."

It took a minute for what he'd said to be understood, but the laughter reached new heights when it was. Ironhide toppled from his seat with a clang, holding his side in mirth (and in all likelihood, suppressed pain from hitting the solid floor of the rec. room).

"You slagger, I'm not repairing that tonight." Ratchet hit the table with a fist, and silence immediately reigned over the company of officers. "Medic's orders! No laughing in the next truth!"

"Wha' d'ya want from me, Ratch? A ghost story?" Jazz was smirking from his seat, next in line to add his own true tale of idiocy, trying to look unaffected by the energon they'd all consumed.

"Nah, whatta ya? Measly hundred years old?" Ironhide scoffed, having made his way back to his seat. "No laughter, huh? Tha'd rule out mosta what we've told already."

Prowl, almost forgotten from his own place in the circle (he hadn't had to tell his own truth yet), felt strangely emboldened by what he'd drunken and heard tonight. "Your worst regret," he announced suddenly, to the table. "Tell us what you wish you'd forget."

Jazz looked taken aback, even with the visor. "Has the ever-great-and-wise Prowl of Praxus deigned to speak to us? To _me_?"

His comment wasn't unfounded. They barely pretended to like each other. Nobody would deny they worked fantastically well together, but again, _nobody _knew exactly what Jazz had done to royally frag Prowl off within seconds of meeting him. It was merely a working relationship, pure and simple.

"'m not sure I've had 'nough high grade to hear this," Blaster said.

"-not stupid enough to tell us anything classified, he can't be, surely-" Red Alert's optics had gone very wide.

Prowl had donned a thoughtful expression. "It's another kind of idiocy," he stated. In contrast to his soft voice, his optics were very bright. Challenging Jazz to tell _that_ kind of truth. "And I don't think Jazz has regretted much of his work," he added, to comfort the panicking security director.

Red Alert's face took on an odd expression, like he wasn't sure if he was reassured or not.

Jazz met Prowl's optics squarely, and tossed back the rest of his cube. "My worst regret?"

Prowl didn't reply, except to toss back his cube in turn.

Jazz let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I think I agree with Blaster." He brought his hands together to stall, fiddling with the small wires until Ratchet's glare became tangible. He laid them on the table, away from each other. "You'd probably guess it was when I was younger."

Ironhide grunted, looking like he was lost in memories himself.

"But actually, it was only about seven centuries ago."

Wheeljack did the calculations. "That's right on the cusp of the War." His slurring had disappeared. It sounded as though most of the group had sobered slightly.

Jazz nodded. "Yeah, just after it kicked off. Literally. It'd started three days prior." He glanced around the table, cataloguing his fellow officers' expressions. He found Prowl's face impassive. _Fragger_. "I'd gone hunting. No, not like that," he added, when Red Alert's hand twitched. "I was looking for the recruitment officers."

Behind his visor, Jazz shuttered his optics. Why had Prowl said that? Frag, why was he actually answering?

"And well, I found them. Signed meself up, and was told to go out and get trashed that night, because the next day I'd be an autobot."

Prowl's optic ridge rose. "Your worst regret is becoming an autobot?" His voice was toneless, allowing the others to infer what they would from the words.

Jazz threw the empty cube at him. Fragger that he was, Prowl caught it before throwing it back in a graceful arc, over Jazz's head so it landed in the waste receptacle.

"Less playin', more talkin'" Ironhide growled.

Jazz glared at Prowl as he continued. "Like a good little soldier, I did exactly as I was told. Went on the cheap stuff, got high, got socialisin' with the rest of the slum crowd. Found someone to talk to, and ended up doing a bit more than talkin' with them." A shadow of a grin had appeared on his face.

The others refrained from making any comment. Jazz looked too genuinely regretful. Nobody was paying attention, but Prowl's posture had suddenly gone very, very stiff.

"And then... in the morning, I left them. I hadn't told them my name, my frequency, anything. Left them offline, with a note on a datapad. Just walked out the door and didn't look back." His voice trailed off.

"They were something special, huh?" Blaster asked softly, when he didn't look like he'd continue.

Jazz gave them a half-smile. "Didn't realise it 'til I found out he'd died, few months into the war. He was- honest. Refreshingly so. Told him what I'd done that afternoon, and he called me an idiot."

Ratchet snorted, but Jazz carried on.

"It was just- by then, I'd figured out I was going into special ops, ya know? I thought I'd find him again, one day. Then- he's gone." He stared down at the table. "Just wish I'd let him know my name."

"You don't regret just leaving him with a message?" Prowl said, curiousity in his voice. "Surely you couldn't have thought, given the circumstances, that if you had met this mech again you'd receive a favourable reaction."

Blaster was staring between the two of them as though he'd just worked out the secret to Primus. He was, after all, a communications expert, and there was a fragging _hell_ of a lot more unsaid to what was coming out of both their vocalisers.

Jazz didn't seem to register who'd asked the question. "It wasn't a harsh way to leave him. Just a song my creator once told me, which I thought he'd like." Jazz started humming a few lines. "...Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred. Someday, you will be loved," he finally sang.

His song lapsed into silence. Then, almost soundlessly, Prowl got to his feet and left the room.

Jazz glared at his back. "What _is_ his problem with me? He _asked_, for frag's sake!"

Wheeljack had caught on to Blaster's revelation. He nudged Ratchet, whose optics flickered briefly when he realised what they were thinking.

"No way," he said bluntly. Jazz swung his gaze round, not understanding. Ratchet amended his exclamation, trying to see what Blaster and Wheeljack saw. "I mean, Prowl's probably just trying to work it out in his own time."

Jazz scoffed. "What, my truth wasn't _logical_ enough for him?"

"Oh,_ yeah_," Ironhide said slowly, remembering a certain issue he'd had with Prowl's original designation when he'd enlisted the younger officer in Polyhex. "I think he's tryin' ta make it make sense."

Jazz shook his head in disbelief. _But then_, he supposed,_ I don't understand Prowl's thinking either_. With a deep sigh, he tapped the table and rose to his feet. "I'm now depressingly sober, thanks. Think I'll head to the berth."

Saying his goobyes, Jazz slowly made it out of the rec room with none of his usual swagger. He left five officers, four thinking along the same lines, one looking very confused at the significant looks the others were giving each other.

"Alright, I know this one's not paranoia," Red Alert said. "What's going on?"

"How I understood?" Ironhide asked. He answered his own question. "It's not known to anybody who wasn't in the original command team, but it's hardly a classified secret. Prowl didn't enlist under his true designation, the first time around. He was running from something, and we didn't realise 'til three months later." He chuckled darkly. "Command made him re-enlist the very next day, and started insisting on full- and _fool- _proof of identity from then on."

Red Alert looked from officer to officer, putting it all together. Eventually, he shook his head in disbelief.

"And people call me the crazy one?" He wondered aloud.

-*-

Jazz laid back on his berth, head spinning with thoughts of that one night.

"Just wish I'd told him my name," he whispered, before cutting out his optics and forcing himself offline.

-*-

Prowl put his hands over his face, groaning. He couldn't stop the thoughts running through his CPU, an endless song on repeat.

"_...You'll be loved, you'll be loved, like you never have known. And the memories of me, will seem more like bad dreams. Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred. Someday, you will be loved..."_

Jazz didn't regret his message. Prowl couldn't make sense of what he _did_ regret. Ironically, the other mech shouldn't have anything_ to_ regret. That particular emotion should belong solely to Prowl himself.

_-*-_

_(Three days after the Decepticons declared war)_

"_So what're ya in for?"_

_Prowl glanced at the mech from the corner of his optic. He had no interest in starting a conversation; he couldn't afford to draw the attention._

"_Ah, come on. Just wanted someone to talk to."_

"_Then maybe you should look elsewhere," Prowl stated levelly._

_The mech cocked his head to one side. "Nah," he replied. "You'll do just fine."_

_As Prowl was considering getting up and leaving himself, the mech started talking. "See, it's my last night of freedom. Was told to go out, get trashed! You're in for a world of pain tomorrow! Or something to that effect."_

_Prowl raised an optic ridge, unimpressed. The mech grinned, and continued. "I enlisted today," he admitted, on the edge of sounding sheepish._

"_I'd already figured you were an idiot," Prowl muttered. "But I thank you for the proof," he said louder._

_The other mech looked taken aback, before smiling for real. "So, care to join me for my final night of freedom?"_

_Prowl forced down the smile in return; the mech clearly wasn't giving up on him. He did hold out his hand, however. "I'm Mort," he offered. Whatever first came to mind._

_The other mech took the hand. "I'm charmed," he retorted drily._

_-*-_

_Prowl onlined sluggishly, one system at a time. He couldn't sense anyone in the vicinity._ Maybe he's gone to get a cube_, he thought._

_Then he turned over, and saw the datapad. He knew immediately what it meant._

_The mech had gone, to his new job. His new world of pain. Even after last night. After everything they'd said and done, and he'd not even been left with a name, much less a frequency. _

He'll probably die within the year.

_It brought a pang to Prowl's spark. He'd never met anyone remotely like the freshly enlisted soldier. No one with such... potential. No one who brought out the same potential in him._

_At least now he knew what he could do. He couldn't run forever, so he'd go somewhere they wouldn't be able to take him away from._

_But first... _

_Nobody would enlist a runaway, nor a civilian so clearly desperate._

_It took him two days to forge the documents, and a further five to find and assimilate what he thought would be necessary upgrades._

_Then, 'Mort' strolled casually up to the grizzled enlistment officer he'd been watching for the last day, and gave over his designation and in all likelihood, his spark._

"_Ya should take today to sort out ya affairs," the officer said. "Then tomorrow-"_

"_A world of pain," Prowl cut in. He looked the mech in the optic. "And if tomorrow's already today?"_

_Ironhide stared for a few seconds. Then he shrugged. "Then I'd say, the training starts at nine. Warehouse three, on the city-front. Don't bother bringing anything with you."_

_-*-_

The memories played through his processor long after he offlined his optics. Resigning himself to a sleepless night, Prowl sat up and started wondering, himself.

What did he regret most about the whole sorry situation?

_-*-_

_It had been hard. It had taken decades. But Prowl had done it, despite the small glitch over his designation. He'd made officer, in the tactical division._

"_Congratulations, Prowl. I believe you deserve this," Prime had told him. _

_He'd been assigned to a base just outside Polyhex. It reminded him of his enlistment. Absently, he wondered if a nameless mech was still online, still laughing (for he'd done a lot of it during _that_ night), still... generally being an idiot._

_He'd been pleased to find himself reporting to Ironhide, the officer who'd enlisted him all those years ago. _

"_Welcome back," the old mech had said. "Let me jus' call someone up to give ya the tour."_

_Prowl nodded. Ironhide went to a base-wide comm. point on the wall. "Jazz, report to the front entrance," he ordered, before disconnecting. "Should be 'bout five minutes."_

_Seven minutes of idle chatting later, another mech sauntered into view. Looking to his commanding officer first, the newcomer missed the sight of Prowl completely tensing up, optics impossibly wide._

"_Jus' need ya to show the new officer 'round the base," Ironhide said. "Shouldn't take too long." Their commander stepped back inside, leaving them to it._

_The mech turned to face Prowl with an easy smile. "So you're the new officer, huh? I'm Jazz, special ops."_

_Prowl didn't think he stopped glaring soon enough, because the mech's (no, _Jazz_'s) smile had faded and he'd discreetly retracted the hand he'd half offered._

"_Right. One of _those_," he'd sighed, just within audio range."Well, the command centre's this way..."_

_As Prowl silently followed, he reflected on just how much restraint it had taken him _not_ to hit the special ops. To scream at him, ask him _why_?_

_Over time, he began to wonder. Why didn't Jazz recognise him? It hurt, to think he'd been forgotten, and only made him dislike the mech even more._

_When he'd been promoted to second, over his former commander, and Jazz to third in command, it was the first time he'd wanted to desert. Nobody ever realised; he made himself work with the mech and left it there, despite overtures of friendship and attempted conversations outside of on duty hours._

_Because if Jazz could forget him so completely, he resolved to do the same. Just forget it. Forget the entire thing; the night, the talks, the high grade..._

_-*-_

And now, ironically enough in a situation also involving a considerable amount of high-grade, he knew.

_My biggest regret?_ Prowl thought.

_Why_ didn't _I punch him? Why_ didn't _I_ _tell him the truth about it? _

-*-


	18. So Damn Clever

Holy hell- I know it's been freakin' ages since I've added to this. But it's _finally_ the sequel to 'Someday...', version 1 856. Seriously- something like that, at least. I don't know how many times I went and re-wrote this- and I didn't want to add anything else first, hence the semi-hiatus.

But I'm finally happy with it, and so it's finally been uploaded. It's very off-beat, rather angsty and tragic, and the final few scenes took me ages, but they're probably my favourite ones.

Inspirations were many- there's no real set song to this one: _So Damn Clever _by Plain White T's; _Lie, It's Alright_ by Bo Bice; _Love the Way You Lie_ by Eminem ft. Rihanna; _Someday You Will Be Loved_ (quoted a few times) by Death Cab For Cutie; _The Ice Is Getting Thinner _by Death Cab For Cutie. I'd recommend all of them, and equally disclaim them all, along with the Transformers trademark.

Shout outs to ShiTiger, Bluebird Soaring, Starfire201, Saberfrost, Refracted Imagination, Optimus Bob, Independent .C., TClover427, hecate-19, iamtheIcestar, tubular_turtle, steelcrash, Gamoora, broflove, ocean's pebble, WolvesFire77, Nightblooming Orchid, FoghornLeghorn83, Sicaria, Eerie Iri, ShadowedBlossom, elenathehun, firebird234, Kai-Chan94, SecretSnow and sapphire-god.

I freakin' love all of you and going back over the favs, reviews and alerts was sometimes the only way I could make myself write this, even if only a line at a time. I hope you're all still here to see this and that I don't disappoint!

Edit: I've just realised that I set the timeline on 'Someday...' as pre-Earth. Ignore that, please- this one's set on the Ark, post-crash, and while writing it I thought of the prequel as being there also. Will go back and change that soon.

It starts the morning after 'Someday...' ends. So, read on, and please enjoy.

* * *

Jazz had a hangover. This wasn't unusual.

Ratchet refused to lend out his hangover remedies. This, also, wasn't uncommon.

But when Prowl stumbled into command centre, looking like he'd lost two rounds with Megatron and Starscream working _together_, gasping and staring at the officer in surprise was completely warranted.

By most mechs, anyway. Jazz merely snorted in amusement and got back to work, head cradled in his left hand.

Prowl heard the Porsche's scoff and sent a glare in his direction. Unfortunately for him, it was somewhat lacking when compared to his normal abilities. Bluestreak hesitantly spoke up from his corner.

"Prowl? Erm... are you alright?"

Prowl's glare swung from one mech to the other, immediately softening when he realised who asked the question. "Yes, Bluestreak," he said quietly. "I'm fine."

Jazz couldn't hold the disagreement back. "Frag off ya are."

Without pausing to look at him, Prowl replied icily. "I was not asked by you, nor was your opinion solicited. In fact, I don't believe you were a part of this conversation at all?" He clicked his denta together as if to stop himself saying any more. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left the room again.

The room fell silent, surprised by the sudden overt hostility. Jazz raised an optic ridge and shook his head at Bluestreak, giving the young gunner a half-amused, fully-despairing look. "I jus' _don'_ understand that mech."

* * *

Prowl collapsed in his office chair and cradled his head in his hands. _Today's checklist_, he thought, with a touch of morbid humour.

_I look like slag._

He hadn't got any recharge yesterday, after all.

_I feel like slag._

_See above_, he concurred.

_I'm not going to get any of this paperwork done._

Prowl wondered how much he could reasonably delegate. Ratchet and Optimus were always telling him to 'share the burden'.

_Jazz knows nothing. Still._

_Fragger. Thank Primus_.

It was the only thing that made him face his fellow officer this morning. _Did he know or learn anything from what I said last night?_

The answer was 'apparently not', and Prowl sank back into his chair with the thought, the tension in his frame lessening just slightly.

_For the love of Primus, why that?_ "Why did I ask? What did I expect?" He asked the empty office. "Jazz thinks I'm dead," he whispered. "He's not even looking for me. It would need a miracle for him to work it out, the idiot."

"Work out what?"

Ratchet had his head poked around the door with a diabolical grin and bright enough optics that Prowl suspected he'd taken a hangover remedy himself, even if he refused to similarly relieve the rest of the suffering officers.

Prowl blinked, realising Ratchet had said something else. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" He asked, slightly shakily.

"I said that someone tried to hack my patient history files. Not only that, but they targeted those with enrolment dates from the beginning of the war, cross-referenced with the city Polyhex. Do you think they were looking for something in particular?" The medic spoke conversationally, as though his words didn't pose a huge security risk.

Prowl's CPU was already working at the facts. "Someone's looking into either mine or Jazz's personal history. We're the only autobots on the Ark currently who fulfil those criteria." His optics narrowed and he stared at the medic. "Why hasn't Red Alert informed me of the security risk himself?"

He suddenly found himself subject to an incredibly effective glare. "You think I told him about this? If you even _dare_ to suggest that I should spend my time resetting his glitching CPU over a _failed_ attempt to access our files, your next medical check-up will be unusually long and painful." He dramatically paused, lowering his voice to a growl. "Do I make myself clear?"

Despite himself, Prowl shivered.

"Good." The threatening tone disappeared. "Of course, there were a few other 'bots whose files came up. Being technically deceased doesn't delete the records." His optics caught Prowl's and held them.

Prowl took less than a second to grasp what he was hinting at, but for the life of him, had nothing to say but, "Oh."

Ratchet snorted. "Eloquent, Prowl." He sighed. "There's a reason we keep your first enlistment a secret, you know?"

Prowl only nodded. "Then we need to trace who it was accessing the files, which faction they are from, and their intentions."

"The last one's easy enough. They tried to delete all records of 'Mort'."

Prowl froze. An alarming picture took shape in his mind. Surely... he wouldn't've?

"That's all I could get- the system booted them out just in time. I was thinking of asking Jazz to assist with the tracing aspect of it all; he's extremely skilled with data retrieval."

"No!" Prowl burst out before he could stop. Mortified with his behaviour, he attempted to re-gather his composure under Ratchet's curious gaze. "Like you said, my personal records are secret for a reason."

Ratchet cocked his head to the side. "Jazz is the only officer on the command team who _doesn't_ know. Even if we haven't gone out of our way to inform him, surely we shouldn't actually try to hide it from him?"

"At least let me try to trace the hacker first. My own skills are sufficient in this case, Ratchet- Jazz doesn't need to know." He tried a neutral stare, but it deteriorated into a grimace under the medic's own.

Ratchet strolled in casually and took the seat in front of his desk. "So you _do_ remember," he said, smirk restored.

Prowl froze. "Remember what?" He asked carefully.

"Last night, of course!" The medic replied immediately. And just as Prowl started to _slightly _relax again, he added "And now you finally know why Jazz didn't look for you, all those years ago. Why he didn't recognise you when you finally saw him again. If you don't mind me asking, why didn't you tell him yourself?"

Prowl glared at the mech. "Get out." He growled.

With a cheerful wave, Ratchet stepped backwards out of the door.

* * *

His day, sadly, didn't improve. It was as he sat in his office, nursing a cube of energon and simultaneously trying to avoid the rest of the world that he figured out he _couldn't_ just have a dispenser and berth set up to one side, thus removing the necessity for him to leave the room at some point in the foreseeable future.

Though, that wasn't what he spent the _entire _day figuring out. Some of his plans centred around avoiding one mech in particular.

It wasn't like it would be suspicious. Prowl didn't exactly seek out the mech's company in the first place.

His musing was interrupted by the door chiming. Prowl invited them in on autopilot, still working out the particulars of his avoidance plan.

When he finally looked up, he was met with the optics of a strictly neutral Ligier. Mirage handed him a datapad, inclined his head a fraction and turned sharply on his heel to leave the office.

It was ironic that out of all the soldiers on the Ark, it was Jazz's underlings who Prowl found most efficient and therefore, easiest to tolerate. Especially since their efficiency most likely stemmed from the fact that _they_ didn't like _him_. Probably something to do with the situation between him and their commander.

He glanced up as the door opened again. Sideswipe strolled in without knocking, taking the seat in front of his desk. "Walked into the miserable slagger on the way out; what's he in for?" The red twin asked with a smirk.

_Or, I could suppose that I'm reading far too much into this, and that Mirage is a miserable fragger to everyone, not just me. Therefore, the world does _not _revolve around my interactions with a certain saboteur, and Primus fraggit neither should my every _thought_!_

Sideswipe. Sideswipe was in his office, most likely for another misdemeanour. It felt a little bit like the universe was finally back to normal. Prowl raised an optic ridge and levelly inquired, "I think the better question is, what are you in here for, _this time_?"

The Lamborghini grinned, and Prowl resisted the urge to whimper. "Figured we'd get to that." He paused for dramatic effect, but the 2IC and default disciplinary officer was well used to his antics, and patiently waited him out. "So," Sideswipe began conversationally. "Did you know that Jazz slips into the Polyhesian dialect when he's _really_ fragged off?"

Prowl blinked, and had a most uncharacteristic desire to whimper.

"Sideswipe." He interrupted the soldier's tale of oppression by the officers and a simple grunt's courageous fight against the powers that controlled him. "I don't need to hear this." _I don't care_. "Consider it fortuitous chance that I will simply say, don't _get caught_ doing it again, if you leave my office immediately."

He knew better than to simply say, _don't do it again_. That would be too much to hope for.

The Lamborghini gave him a surprisingly searching look. "Has whatever's bugging you got to do why the rest of the officers are acting strangely?"

"They're what?" Prowl repeated, CPU just thinking _No. Primus no. They _all _know?_

"Ratchet's going round like he's retired, Ironhide's not threatened to shoot anyone yet, Jazz is depressed and Wheeljack and Blaster are closeted away together, plotting something they wouldn't let me in on." He glanced one way then the other and leant forwards slightly, as though they were confidants. "It's like _Armageddon_," he whispered.

Prowl carefully kept his expression blank (he'd seemed to be doing that a lot recently). "Sideswipe," he began, in his best _you-will-obey-me _voice that had never worked on the grunt before, "let it be and get out."

With a last lingering look, the Lamborghini didn't argue. But at the door, he paused and looked back at his 2IC. "Just- on the rounds for the next few weeks- don't put me with Jazz?" he all but begged, doing his best to look pitiful.

_That name again_. Prowl would do anything to get the mech out of his office, now. "Fine. Done. _Leave_!"

Sideswipe sketched an odd kind of half-bow that suggested too much time watching Japanese TV, and finally closed the door behind him.

Prowl made sure the door was locked. Then, arms lying on his desk, head cushioned on his arms, he gave in, and whimpered into the metal.

* * *

He'd thought he was safe. Just in and out of the rec. room, two minutes maximum.

"So, Prowler. Got a bit of a question for you, and you were in _such_ a hurry this mornin'," the sarcasm was thick and heavy, "that I figured I'd do the decent thing and ask ya tonight."

Prowl gritted his denta before making his face impassive and facing the mech who'd addressed him. "I'd request that you stop calling me that, however I feel it would be pointless." He recognised the sarcasm in Jazz's tone, and matched it.

"Well frag- ya _do_ understand somethin' about me." Jazz grinned, not kindly.

"If this is to do with the decepticons detected in Florida, I've sent the plan back to your workstation with my recommendations," Prowl said shortly, trying to leave.

"One minute. You haven't answered my question." Jazz put a hand on the doorframe, not blocking the path, but making himself difficult to ignore.

"How can I answer a question you haven't asked? Though if it's not work-related, _Jazzler_, I don't want to." It was about as hostile as he let himself be.

Jazz frowned and took a step back, studying the other mech for a second. "Primus, Prowl," he said, tone for once warmer than a glacier, "I thought _I _was the one put through the dismantler last night. Ya look like slag."

Prowl raised an optic-ridge. "Was your opinion solicited?" He repeated his statement from the morning.

Jazz carelessly waved a hand. "Everyone's entitled ta my opinion. But seriously. Did ya get any recharge at all?"

_That_ wasn't something Prowl wanted to discuss, especially with Jazz of all mechs. "Just ask your question," he deflected, suddenly interested. Anything was better than _that_ conversation. _Confrontation. Argument. Confession?_ He honestly had no idea where _that _talk could lead, and it made him all the more determined to prevent it ever happening.

Jazz gave him a look; they both knew what he was doing. But with no real bond between them, Jazz sighed and let it go. "Yeah. I was wonderin' where _your_ question last night came from. An' why ya left before we could return the favour to ya."

"High-grade," Prowl answered, flatly and immediately. "It got to my CPU rather quicker than I'm proud of." _Not entirely a lie. _Prowl had had at least three cubes by himself in his quarters.

Jazz snorted. "The humans have an interestin' phrase. Bull shit, loosely translatin' ta, 'What a pile o' slag'. You'd barely touched your cube when ya left."

Prowl half-smiled, appearing rueful. "Nonetheless, it's all the slag you're getting from me."

Jazz matched his smile and raised him a smirk. "I figure I jus' need ta annoy ya enough with the repeated askin'." _I'll find out the truth. You've intrigued me now._

"Then it is fortunate you are not among the ranks of our interrogators," Prowl parried smoothly. _Try it, fragger._

He brushed past the mech without another word, leaving a thoughtful Porsche in his wake.

* * *

On entering his quarters, the first thing Prowl did was boot up his personal workstation and check his user history.

"Apparently I've not accessed the records from this station in... over a month," he muttered to himself. He snorted, remembering his not inconsiderable ability in planting false information. "Well, I know _that's _not true."

With skilful manipulation of codes and the Ark's primary system programming, he had a detailed list of the records history and when they'd last been brought to his attention.

It agreed with what his personal user history said. Not accessed by him in since the last Ark-wide medical check-ups.

"Maybe I _didn't_ do something as stupid as trying to delete my first enrolment record..." He pressed a few more keys, and the screen flickered and changed. Prowl sighed. "Then again, maybe I did."

He regarded the screen with the look he normally saved for Megatron and his cronies, and sighed. "How overcharged did I _get_?"

* * *

"Prowler!"

The mech in question clenched his fists. "Jazz?"

"So I was wondering..." the saboteur trailed off and looked sidelong at his audience of one. He grinned. "Wanna answer my question?"

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "That's the best your interrogation tactics can come up with? I never took you to be a mech who just asked nicely."

If anything, the grin got wider. Prowl fought the urge to shiver.

"Nah, it's only my start-up routine. The real quiz comes later." He winked behind his visor.

Prowl dismissed him with a nod. "Then if you'd excuse me, I have an appointment with Ratchet to keep."

Jazz whistled. "Ya must _really _want ta avoid answerin' that question if you'd put a meetin' with the Hatchet first."

Prowl smirked, and brushed past him. "You have no idea," he tossed over his shoulder, "and believe me, you never will."

He left the Porsche in the corridor and entered the medbay. "Ratchet?" he called. The medic was nowhere in sight.

A string of curses revealed he was in his office. When the mech appeared, he had a wrench in his hand. Prowl eyed it warily as Ratchet raised it and said, "Yes?"

Not taking his optics off the lethal weapon, Prowl answered, slightly hesitantly, "You raised a query about the records hacker."

Ratchet's optics visibly brightened. He relaxed and leant back against the wall, as if expecting to be entertained.

_Very_ unnerved now, Prowl continued, "I traced the data back to the perpetrator and have lectured them at length on their folly. I assure you it won't happen again." If 'lecturing at length' could be taken as the internal rant he'd spent four hours on the previous night, it wasn't even a lie.

"You did, did you?" Ratchet was idly spinning the wrench now, twirling it over and over in his fingers. "As the mech who discovered the crime," he smiled, most delighted at Prowl's almost imperceptible wince, "do I not get the perpetrator's name?"

Prowl straightened his shoulders. "No," he stated flatly. "If word of this was to go out, it could damage moral to know the Ark has one of their own working against them even in such an innocent manner."

"But-"

Prowl cut Ratchet off. "I have heard the perpetrator's motives, and can say with full confidence that they were personal and nothing to do with the ongoing war. They constitute no threat to the security of this base." He knew the medic had worked out _exactly_ what he'd done even before his report.

Ratchet _had_ to be getting a kick out of this.

"But-"

"The case is closed," Prowl cut in again. Ignoring the medic's sly smile, he figured the conversation could only go downhill from there and left the medbay.

He also ignored the raucous laughter that exploded as soon as the door closed behind him.

_Fragger_.

* * *

Ratchet entered Wheeljack's office as though he wasn't walking into a potential demolition zone. The scene he walked in on completely justified his lack of caution, however, because the medic doubted even _Wheeljack_ could make a datapad explode. He cleared his intakes, and was rewarded with his oldest friend's immediate attention.

"Ratch! What's up in medbay?"

"You will never guess the conversation I just had with our esteemed 2IC," he grinned.

Wheeljack bolted upright in his seat. "You're joking? It really was him?"

"Good as confirmed it for me. The motives were 'personal' and 'constitute no threat to the security of this base'."

"Primus on a kamikaze seeker," Wheeljack muttered. "You're quoting him, aren't you?"

Ratchet sank into the second chair in the room. "So come on! What have you and Blaster cooked up to get our clueless duo to _talk_ at last?"

The inventor frowned at the datapad in his hand. "Nothing that's feasible," he admitted. "Come on, getting either of them to talk personal's like getting decent high-grade from the crude oil here."

Ratchet was still grinning.

Wheeljack had a sneaking suspicion. "What have you come up with?"

Ratchet splayed a hand over his chest-plate in faux innocence. "Me? I've simply decided I'm dissatisfied with Prowl's report on the hacking and as such, need to bring in another expert to shed more light on the incident."

Despite himself, Wheeljack was impressed. "I've known you for how many years now, Ratch?" he asked rhetorically. "And even _I_ never knew how evil you could be."

Ratchet's grin turned some shades darker. "Wheeljack, my friend, you've never fragged me off enough to find out."

"And may I never in the future too," Wheeljack intoned, miming a toast. "So when is your devious plan going into motion?"

"I think I'll give them a week, benefit of the doubt and all."

His friend laughed. "Prolong the torture, you mean? At least this proves a long-standing theory of mine- medics _are_ sadists."

* * *

"Yo, Prowl!"

The 2IC released a quick prayer to Primus before turning around. Not only Jazz, but Blaster too, whose face was set in an uncharacteristic scowl. Prowl sighed. "Bringing a telepath to improve your chances of a successful interrogation is pointless. All officers have rudimentary training and protection." He turned to the orange mech. "And you might be an officer in your own right, but I still outrank you; try it and I'll have you court-martialled."

It wasn't the first time he'd been accosted by the Porsche in the last week. Nor the second, third, or fourth. Prowl had stopped counting after seven.

He continued before Jazz could get a word in. "And if _you_ think that your persistent badgering of me will make me _finally_ talk to you, you truly and _thankfully_ know _nothing_ about me." The words nearly choked him; he had to force them out. He glared at Jazz, hoping he'd get the message and just _leave_.

Jazz matched the Datsun stare for stare, Blaster long forgotten. He'd heard the catch in Prowl's voice and it intrigued him all over again, just like many similar occurrences had over the last week.

"Ya know what?" Jazz went down a different track. "You're right, I know nothin' about ya. But it's not for lack of tryin' on _my_ part. I wasn' the little _glitch_ who refused ta have anythin' ta do with his colleague when they started workin' together."

The mech was _infuriating_. Prowl replied without thinking, "And _you_ know what, Jazz? _I'm_ not the one who leaves the potential love of their life to wake up alone, after a single evening of knowing them!"

Jazz froze. Prowl blinked, and took a step back, horrified by what he'd said. "Jazz..."

"No." Jazz's voice had turned icy. "No, ya don't jus' get to apologise an' walk away from that one." He tensed and formed a fist with his left hand, only to have his friend grasp it and pull him away.

"Jazz, _no_." Blaster spoke lowly, soothingly, contradicting the sudden panic in his optics. "Trust me, don't do this now. You _will_ regret it. Jazz, come with me. _Now_."

With an angry growl, the Porsche spun and stormed away. Blaster waited until he was out of earshot before staring intently at a shaken Prowl.

"You know?" The 2IC confirmed what he'd suspected of everyone _except _Jazz since that fragging night. "Since when?"

"Since you asked that fragging question," Blaster replied, frustration evident. "Why can't you just tell him?"

"After all this time?" Prowl laughed bitterly. "It'd just make it worse."

Blaster glanced back down the corridor, where Jazz had left. "Worse? Really?" _Can it get worse?_

"After all this time, how can we... we wouldn't be able to let it go. He _shouldn't _be able to let it go." _How could he forgive me for lying? How could I _let_ him?_

"I think you're both blind idiots," Blaster said, before following in Jazz's footsteps.

* * *

"Jazz? You got a moment?"

The visored mech looked up with a grin. "For my favourite medic with a heavy wrench in 'is hand? O' course."

Ratchet grinned back. They had an odd sort of camaraderie, that nobody else even pretended to understand. Mention in the most oblique way an upcoming physical and Jazz would run for the hills. Mention how he'd acquired some of the wounds Ratchet had fixed over the years and even the experienced medic's tanks got queasy.

Somehow, it worked.

"I was wondering if you could do a little hacking job for me on the side. Strictly off-record, of course." Prowl was the overseer of records everywhere, and if he got wind of this his plan would fail before it even started.

"Hm." Jazz brought a hand up to his cheek and tapped his fingers against the smooth metal. "But what'd be in it for me?"

"Information," Ratchet replied, without missing a beat. "Information I know you'll want to hear."

Jazz raised an optic ridge. "Ya so certain o' that?"

The medic nodded. "100%." He said solemnly.

Jazz pretended to consider it for few minutes, and Ratchet pretended to wonder if he'd do it.

They broke into a grin at the same time. "The information?" Jazz asked.

"Later," Ratchet waved him off. He was one of the few who could get away from it. "Details first." He grinned. Time those two idiots got this sorted out; it was only a few centuries overdue (_not_ including time spent in statis). "Late on the night of the _question_, when all good and drunk mechs were abed, there was an attempt to access the personal files of certain autobots..."

* * *

The door to his office slammed open, framing a certain saboteur in the corridor light. Prowl looked up from the datapads he was signing off, in equal parts annoyed and confused about the interruption.

"No, probably not and _frag_, no," he said pleasantly, when Jazz remained silent, just staring at him. "Was there anything else you needed?"

Jazz said nothing, which was when Prowl began to worry. One of his doorwings started twitching as he started praying what he thought had happened, _please _Primus _don't let it have happened._

Even though it was too late, he continued to pray.

_Don't let him know_.

* * *

Blaster had been having a very good day. There had been no superior officers in the room during monitor duty, so he'd been able to listen to his music as he pleased. His cassettes had been unusually agreeable with each other, and he'd not had to spend time mediating _another_ one of their arguments. He'd been looking forwards to the evening all day, because he and Jazz had had tickets to the latest hot thing on the rock scene that their human friends had insisted they'd _love_.

He stood there looking through the open door of Jazz's quarters, and with a touch of foreboding realised his day just took a drastic turn.

Because he didn't have to step inside to see Jazz's workstation screen, which had large letters scrawled across it.

**Autobot: Mort.**

**Place of enlistment: Polyhex.**

**Status: Deceased (***)**

He had to squint a little to read the attached footnote. He suspected Jazz had hacked something, because there was no _way_ he'd have missed this before.

*****Technicality. Autobot alias 'Mort' re-enlisted under true name, Prowl. For details of re-enlistment, see file **_**here**_**.**

Blaster swore like the trooper he used to be, and ran as fast as he could for the med bay.

* * *

To Jazz, it was like seeing a ghost. There were the doorwings that twitched whenever the conversation got uncomfortable, the optics that narrowed when he touched a nerve in the other 'bot, the scar on the inside of the left wrist that Jazz had felt even when he couldn't see it through the fake paint-

_How in Primus's name had he not _realised_?_

And on the heels of doubt and hurt longing came _fury_.

"I know I taught ya _bull shit_," he began in a dark voice, so unlike his usual tone. "Here's another one: You. Outside. _Now_."

And Prowl, frozen through Jazz's silent scrutiny of him, stopped praying and starting shaking.

* * *

Blaster burst into the med bay, uncaring that there might be a wrench on the rampage for doing so. His dramatic entrance was largely ignored; the medic sitting in the corner only glanced up from his datapad briefly before continuing to read.

"What," Blaster forced the words past his heaving intakes. "Did you _do_?"

Ratchet looked up again, no remorse on his features. "Something that should've happened years ago," he said shortly, head dropping down to read again.

Blaster stormed across the room, and slapped the datapad from the medic's hand. "This is going to break them," he hissed. "Yes, they needed to find out, but like this? Jazz will never forgive Prowl, or himself."

"Because you automatically assume that it's forgiveness that will help them," Ratchet snapped back. "They don't need to forgive each other; they just need to _know_ each other. Truth, honesty, just basic _trust_; they've never had it. It makes the rift that little bit deeper every day, and nothing as paltry as _forgiveness _will fill it. Only the truth can."

Blaster stepped back, staring the medic down. "The truth heals all, huh?" He said rhetorically.

Ratchet answered anyway. "But to be healed, something first has to be properly _broken_."

* * *

The saboteur hissed impatiently when Prowl stayed in his seat. "This is _not_ a conversation I want recorded on the Ark's cameras," he jerked his head angrily at a corner of the room, where a lens winked in the light from the hallway. "So ya better stand up right now an' lead the way outta the closest exit or _so help me Primus_ I will _drag_ ya out by the doorwings with your hands restrained."

Prowl twitched at that, and even as Jazz mentally (and sarcastically) celebrated getting a response, started calmly shuffling the datapads on his desk into piles. Then, still calmly, he got to his feet and crossed the five footsteps between the desk and the door. His optics caught and held Jazz's for a good few seconds; both mechs winced at what they saw.

_._

"After me, then," Prowl muttered, still calm, if only because he was running so many scenarios that could play out in the next half an hour that his CPU simply had no room to compute the emotions associated with them.

In silence, the mechs made their way to the exit, ignoring anyone they passed on the way.

Calmly, Prowl entered the code into the blast doors. They opened with the faintest hiss of the hydraulics behind the walls.

Calmly, Prowl kept walking until they were out of sight of the opening, and the perimeter cameras. Only then did he stop and face the mech following him.

_Jazz_.

Jazz, who wasted no time, stepping into the Datsun's personal space immediately and punching him across the faceplate.

Prowl reeled backwards, but held his ground. "You get the first one for free," he said tonelessly.

Jazz laughed, but it was a far cry from his normal, happy chuckles. _This_ laugh was broken. "Jus' the first? Don't ya think ya deserve a _hell_ of a lot more than that?"

"Don't _you_ think we're equally accountable for this situation?" Prowl shot back, voice still lacking any emotion.

It hurt too much to feel _anything_.

"Equal-" Jazz choked, the word cut off halfway. "This some big revenge kick, then? Ya saw me again an' figured ya could soothe your pride afta bein' left alone in the mornin'?"

"None of this was about revenge!" Prowl yelled back, finally finding an emotion to feel. He grabbed Jazz's shoulders and yelled the words directly into his face. "_You_ left _me_, and I didn't even know your name!"

Jazz shrugged his hands off and kicked at Prowl's midsection. Either not seeing it or not caring to dodge, the hit connected and Prowl fell back, sprawling on the ground. Jazz followed up immediately, pinning the mech down as he screamed in reply. "I was goin' in for trainin'! Ya knew what I was doin', _why_ I couldn' leave any ties behind! Primus, I never expected ta survive the year, let alone make officer some day! What good woul' stayin' in touch've done?"

Prowl froze at those words. Then he bucked sharply and head-butted Jazz on the forehead. The saboteur reeled, grip loosening enough for him to stagger up again. "If you didn't want any ties, why come to me that night? I didn't ask for this, I didn't _want_ you to talk to me! You ignored me pushing you away and _made_ that connection and then broke it without a care for who you left in the wake!"

Jazz wheezed as he recovered his balance. "Like ya're any better than me, _Mort_. I forced nothin' on ya that night. An' if ya so _desperately_ wanted ta see me again, why didn' ya tell me in Polyhex? Smile at me, hug me, hell, why didn' ya punch me while ya're at it?"

Prowl was quiet for seven seconds. Then, a sharp crack rang out as he punched Jazz, still recovering his breath, hard enough to shatter his visor. The saboteur went down, spinning with the hit so he landed on his front. Prowl walked around so he was facing Jazz again and crouched down, grabbing the saboteur by the chin and forcing his optics up. "I wanted to. You have no _idea_ how much I wanted to." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Speaking of wanting, I'll answer your fragging question." He leaned in close enough to kiss, before bypassing Jazz's face in favour of his audio. "My worst regret _is_ not punching you when we met again. I hate myself for not telling you about it, for still caring after all this time. And I hated you for so long, because you _laughed_ and you _smiled_ and you'd _forgotten everything_. Admit it, Jazz! You didn't even think of Mort when you saw me that day. My frame was identical to what it was just three days after this war begun. And still you didn't _see_ me." He whispered the last bit. "_I cannot pretend, that I felt any regret, because each broken spark will eventually mend_," he quoted harshly. "And imagine my shock, my surprise and _horror_, when on that Primus-forsaken night I realised you _did_ regret it. We're both liars, Jazz. At least I had the nerve to lie to your face."

Jazz jerked his chin out of Prowl's grip, glaring as he got his hands beneath him and pushed himself to his knees. "I never lied ta ya, Prowl. I might not've told ya everythin', but I never lied ta ya. An' I'm sorry if I didn' make it obvious that my thought-dead lover looked a _hell_ of a lot like my new colleague." He paused. "Actually, I'm _not_- I did nothin' wrong!" His optics dulled as he spoke again. "I looked for ya once I finished trainin'. An' I found ya in the records, dead. So I mourned ya, an' I kept a special place in my spark for ya an' what could've been." He got to his feet slowly. Prowl let him.

"Ain't it funny what the truth can do for perspective?" Jazz said, all ire drained from him. "But now ya know. That's what bugged ya the most, I bet. I tried, Prowl. Or rather, _Mort._" He stepped up to Prowl and brushed past him, knocking shoulders with the mech. "Who's the bigger liar? Far's I can tell I did everythin' I could. Now ya know what that was, can ya tell me differently?"

He waited for five painful minutes of silence. Then he looked back over his shoulder at the tactician silhouetted by the setting sun. "Ya remember how ya called me an idiot? Lookin' at it now, with the truth between us, I just think ya're a hypocrite."

Before Prowl could recover his voice, Jazz was gone, and he was left alone as the sun finally sunk below the horizon.

* * *

When Ratchet onlined that morning, he knew immediately something was off. He sat up and spotted the saboteur lounging in his chair straight away.

Jazz just looked at him levelly, optic to optic. "Give me one reason not ta de-spark ya," he said, voice low.

Ratchet got up and sank into the opposite chair, not breaking the optic contact. "You needed to know the truth."

"Why? So I could _forgive_ him?"

Ratchet groaned and hung his head in his hands. "What is it with you younger mechs and forgiveness?" He muttered. Glancing up, he softened his tone. "Honestly Jazz, I don't expect you to forgive him. Ignore him for a while, _that_ I expect. Keeping the professional relationship between you, I expect. And one day, although Primus alone knows when that'll be, I expect one of you to decide the other's suffered enough, and finally accept the overture, _that they've waited for,_ to start again, with nothing but absolute honesty between them."

Jazz cocked his head, showing the confusion that reigned temporarily over his anger. "Why're ya so hooked on the notions of truth an' honesty?"

Ratchet smiled softly. "Because you're you. And Prowl is Prowl. _Your_ work is, at least in part, separating lies from truths and acting on them accordingly. You can't relax until you know what's real and what's fiction. Prowl... his logic leaves no room for lies. They're as illogical as emotions, and you've seen how he deals with them. The fact that _you_ make him deal with both- and don't glare at me like that," he added sharply, when Jazz looked mutinously at him. "I'm not saying this is your fault at all- he can't relax around you, because his _logical_ CPU is screaming at him every second to stop lying and his emotions tell him he _can't_. He's constantly fighting with himself, far more than he ever fights with you."

Silence followed those words as his audience blinked slowly. Ratchet went the final mile.

"When you work together, it's complete truth. Swapping ideas and information, correcting each other's mistakes and making sure that you're both doing the best you can. You're _good_ for him, Jazz, and he's good for you too." He let the saboteur take that in, before adding, "but only when you're honest with each other. You needed to know, as did he." The medic reached out and gripped Jazz's upper arm, like a brother would. "And that's why you're not going to de-spark me. Because after I've fitted you a new visor, and you go and mope in your quarters and _think_ about it all, you'll realise I'm right."

Jazz looked down at the hand gripping his arm, to the earnest face of the medic it belonged to, and jerkily nodded. "Okay, then," was all he said, and as Ratchet led him to the medbay, he tactfully ignored the hitch that had been apparent in the words.

* * *

The door chimed, and before Prowl could ask who it was, Ratchet let himself into his quarters using his medic's override code.

"That's illegal, you know," Prowl commented off-hand, not moving from his berth.

Ratchet snorted. "You took a sick day. That puts you under my jurisdiction, so _I_ outrank _you_, and it's not against regulations."

Prowl turned on his side so he could face the medic. "There's nothing wrong with me. I'm just taking some long-neglected time off, for a change. Aren't you always saying I should relax a little?"

The medic glanced at the very visible dent in Prowl's chest, then the scuffs on his face, and the slightly-crushed plating around his wrists. "And here I thought you were too logical to lie, even as pathetically as that attempt was," he snarked.

His patient grimaced, and finally sat up. "Fine," he said shortly, holding out his wrists to be fixed. "Just don't ask me where I got them from."

Ratchet sat down and began to remove the damaged plating. "I already know," he said lightly. "Indirectly, you got them from me."

Prowl's entire frame tensed. "You- _you_ caused all of this?"

"I gave Jazz a similar talk this morning when he threatened to de-spark me. You two needed to know, not so you could forgive each other, but so eventually- when you accept that he hurt you, yes, but he tried to fix it and through _no fault of his own_ was unable to- you can ask him to start over and he'll accept." Ratchet sighed heavily. "In the meantime, you will go back on duty tomorrow, and work well with him like you've always done, and _then_ you will learn from those instances and work out how to put the honesty and trust between you in your working relationship into one more personal- be it friendship or deeper, I don't care for the details. Understand?"

Prowl was quiet while Ratchet finished the repairs to his frame. But as the medic made to leave, he looked up, and with a shadow of the wry humour his friends alone knew he possessed, said, "You're only ordering me around now because you _know_ you can get away with it. Try this on any other day and I'd throw the regulations at you quicker than you throw wrenches at Lamborghinis."

Ratchet smirked, knowing he'd been understood, and left Prowl to the thinking he had to sort through.

* * *

Prowl opened the door without knocking, somehow _knowing_ the Porsche would still be working. He strolled over to the officer behind the desk, feeling Jazz's optics on him every step of the way.

He placed one of the two cubes in his hands on the desk and risked glancing up. Jazz's new, week-old visor was completely inscrutable.

"I figure..." he began, not really knowing where he was going with this. Jazz's face was still blank. "I figure I should introduce myself to my colleague. Get to know him a bit better." He took a small sip of the energon to make time; to let him string his words together. "Because, I've met him before. At least, I think I did." He smiled ruefully. "Who knows? He might have been a vision, or a dream, _just a series of blurs_." He paused, not himself sure where he was going with this. "I'd like to meet that mech again, despite what my previous actions may suggest- I've never dealt too well with sudden emotions, and- by the time I knew what I was feeling, how could I own up to it? I'd already made that careful distance, and _you_ never gave any indication you remembered me. So- yes. I lied to you. I- I just didn't know what to say." Prowl collapsed in the guest chair, feeling as though he'd sprinted the distance to Cybertron and back.

Jazz took the cube, tossing it from hand to hand. He cleared his intakes, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Let out a short bark of laughter that made Prowl start, it was so sudden.

When he finally spoke, all he said was, "_Primus_, we're bad at this."

Prowl thought he now knew what a spark freezing felt like.

Then Jazz spoke again. His tone said it all: hurt, worry, pain and most painful of all, _hope_. "I'm free tonight. Care ta join me?"

The words, purposely mimicking that fateful first night, banished his insecurity and fears of outright rejection. Prowl knew what to say now.

The tactician sat up and placed the cube on the desk. He then extended his hand across the short distance, and said simply, "I'm Prowl."

His voice was clear and truthful.

The saboteur smiled, and said back, "I'm charmed." For a moment Prowl thought that would be it, but the smile deepened, became open and honest. His hand was grasped lightly, both of them trembling a little. "And my designation is Jazz."


	19. Touch Too Much

Crack. Total crack combined with the unholy matrimony that is influences from Transformers, Hot Fuzz, Life on Mars, and AC/DC's Touch Too Much. I own none of them.

Genderbending, human!verse, Jazz/fem!Prowl, gleeful inaccuracy with police processes, swearing and possibly a few Britishisms that crept in when I wasn't paying close enough attention. There is no way in hell this reflects any kind of real life scenario- and if it does, I will promptly lose all respect for my country's police forces.

*grins* or be incredibly proud of them. Not quite sure.

Enjoy- I certainly did.

* * *

She knew she should be focusing on the case, on her goal, hell, _anything_ except the arms around her waist and the body behind her. Soft drinks had been left behind hours ago- she suspected that her third drink had been spiked, and well, she couldn't have refused the fourth one from that nice stranger unless she'd _wanted_ to stand out, even if it had vodka in it, and by the time she wanted a fifth one, withholding the alcohol seemed like a stupid idea anyway.

Prowl gasped as a hand trailed down her side to rest at her hip; even if her partner _wasn't_ the suspect she was looking for, he was one hell of a dancer. Given the low lighting in the club, she had only caught a glimpse of his face, but his actions had been suspicious enough for her to justify approaching him in the name of the law.

Strictly speaking, she shouldn't have been on the case yet. Freshly transferred from London, Prowl hadn't been due to start working with the local Manchester forces until tomorrow. But when you got a lead, it had to be followed... no matter that she was on her own and had no idea who she'd be reporting to in the morning.

She gasped again, louder, when the hand on her hip tightened its grip and pulled her against its owner, so her back and his chest were flush against each other. Embarrassed, she bit her lip to stop herself making any more involuntary noises.

"Don' hide that voice, darlin'," the man murmured in her ear, barely audible over the music. "Lemme hear tha' lovely accent."

He seemed obsessed with her voice, having already admitted it was that which had caught his attention. Prowl knew it stood out a bit, her being from London and all, but still... it was one more suspicious thing about him, adding to the frequent furtive glances around the room and the relatively minor amount of alcohol he had consumed as opposed to the rest of the club's patrons. He'd been sitting too long to be waiting for someone_, and nobody in their right mind would stand him up,_ her own mind helpfully added.

That was what had caught _her_ attention, as well as the fact that until now, he'd rebuffed several advances from prettier women than she, and sent back as many drinks. She couldn't believe he was simply _that_ fussy about how they sounded, more likely he was her criminal, he'd somehow realised she was an officer and was looking to do the same thing to her as she was to him. Pre-emptive strike and takedown.

What logic couldn't explain in her theory, alcohol did.

Dancing had seemed like a good idea: she'd make him lower his guard, fool him into thinking she was after nothing beyond a good night out. The ultimate result was her, grinding back against him in the middle of the crowd, with his hands going where no decent gentleman would put them, all in the name of public safety.

With an inner smirk, Prowl reflected that just sometimes, when there was no paperwork, no stupid partner and nobody to answer to, she _loved_ her job.

* * *

One song had become two, then many; the next round of drinks had become a competition to see who could down their respective poisons (hers still a vodka and coke, his a dirty martini, if she wasn't much mistaken) the fastest, with the loser buying another round for them to savour immediately afterwards.

She suspected he'd lost on purpose, if the lopsided grin on his face meant anything. She confirmed her suspicion when back at the table, instead of giving her the vodka, he'd taken a mouthful himself before sealing his lips over hers and letting the drink trickle through their kiss.

Never one to be beaten, she'd curved her mouth against his into a smile, swallowing the liquid before breaking away and taking the martini in his other hand. He smirked as she took a slow, deliberate mouthful of the alcohol and leant back in, threading her fingers through his hair.

He placed both hands on her waist and lifted her into his lap without any problems. Absently, in the back of her mind now, Prowl noted that such strength would be imperative for a criminal of the calibre she'd been hoping to find tonight. Then her partner did something _amazing_ with his tongue, and she stopped caring altogether.

* * *

Prowl woke up with the abrupt realisation that one: she was _woefully _hung over, and two: the arm around her waist, as well as the leg slotted between hers, could not physically belong to her because she'd always had two of each, rather than the apparent three that were in her bed that morning.

Blearily, she peered at her alarm clock and noted that it was far too early for her to consider getting up. Her alarm would go off in half an hour; she'd rise then. Prowl relaxed again, absently noticing that, also most unusually, she had slept naked.

It was compelling evidence for how much she'd drunk the previous night: only when she snuggled back into the body behind her (that in all likelihood was attached to the extra arm and leg she'd previously noted, and that was also naked), did Prowl freeze and think, _but I live alone._

Closely followed, of course, by _my _god,_ but my head hurts._

There was a _body_ in her _bed_.

With a barely contained squeak, Prowl threw herself to the other side of the mattress and spun to see who was under the covers with her. Her guest grunted and flopped onto his back, but otherwise didn't stir.

Her gaze was drawn to the long hair, longer than was typical for a man's style anyway, reaching his chin. Her sluggish mind helpfully flashed back to running her fingers through that hair and drawing its owner into a martini-flavoured kiss.

She'd brought a man home. Dear god, on the first day of her new job (an unpleasant fact she'd remembered mere seconds ago), she'd brought someone _back to her house_.

Her job. There was another murky link there, something she'd want to remember before the man woke up. She dragged her hands through her own hair in frustration, casting her eyes around the room so she could look anywhere but right in front of her.

Her boots were carelessly thrown at the end of the bed. Joining them had apparently been her skirt, tights and underwear, along with someone else's jeans and shoes.

Prowl blinked once, taking it all in, before looking away and deliberately trying to forget the image.

_The doorway, then._

Her door looked like it had been thrown carelessly open. Behind it, in a rumpled pile topped off by a coat-hanger, were the clothes she'd been intending to wear into work this morning. Nothing too incriminating... but was that a shirt she could see just in her field of vision in the hallway?

She shifted to the left slightly, and swallowed. _Yep._

Before the little voice in the back of her mind _really _starting screaming, she dipped her head into her hands, blocking any further disturbing sights. Without opening her eyes again, she reached onto her bedside table, just checking (and she wouldn't have been surprised if it were true) that all of creation _wasn't_ out to get her and she still _did _have half an hour left until her alarm went off.

_Chink._

Prowl fumbled some more around the chain that connected her handcuffs. Finally locating the plastic torture device, she checked the flashing numbers. Twenty-six minutes and counting.

Prowl breathed evenly and deeply. The day was not entirely lost. She placed the alarm clock back down.

_Chink._

The DI stared at her cuffs suspiciously. The voice in her mind was telling her this was related to the job-memory-link that her mind refused to remember.

There was a groan from the other side of the bed.

_Dear god, why _had she gone out last night? She felt like groaning with her unnamed companion.

Making the most of her last twenty minutes of peace, Prowl pulled her pillow over her head and mentally reviewed the case files that she'd had transferred with her.

Oh. _Oh._

With _that _thought in mind, she turned to her bed partner and surveyed him in a new light.

_Damn, but crime suits him._

Then, without guilt, remorse, or further thought, she grabbed her cuffs, locked one around his right wrist and yanked the appendage up so she could lock the other around the bar of her headboard.

His eyes had shot open at the first bite of the metal, but all he'd done was blink rapidly at her and at his now captive wrist.

"Have ta say, it's a firs' for me. Never woke up in cuffs before."

The voice was slurred with sleep but still _oh-so-delicious_; deep, throaty, and making Prowl want to shiver. She told herself furiously to _wake up_ and ignore that last night had ever happened.

"Don' remember 'em bein' a part o' last night neither. An' if they were, it's a _real_ shame." He grinned, clearly trying his chances despite his predicament.

Prowl knew just what to say to wipe the grin off his face. She held up her badge and stated levelly, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of organised crime including, but not limited to, drugs trafficking, prostitution, murder and grand larceny."

Much to her ire, his grin only faded slightly. "Wha' kinda game're ya playin' anyway? "

"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." She smirked at the man, whose amused look was quickly morphing into flabbergasted.

"But- ya jus'- 'M a _cop_, damn it! Let me outta these!"

"Do you understand your rights as I have conveyed them to you?" Prowl asked sweetly. She grabbed his wallet from the floor and checked his IDs: no badge, there was nothing to worry about.

_Jazz_, as the ID named him, swore profusely.

It set the tone for the rest of the morning rather nicely.

* * *

Jazz sullenly followed her instructions while he dressed himself back in what he'd been wearing last night. He weighed up the pros and cons of fighting back, but if she really _was_ a cop, then all this was some big misunderstanding that could be sorted out the moment they got to a station.

Getting the shirt on had been a bit tricky, but somehow they'd worked around the handcuffs without the pistol he'd seen holstered under her arm coming out (and was it wrong that the sight of her with a gun made him slightly hot under the collar?). She (_Prowl_, he sourly remembered from the badge flashed at him) had been entirely business this morning- he wondered if it was because she was trying to forget or if she really was just that cold, him cast aside after getting what she wanted.

Well. Once she _thought_ she had what she wanted. Because somehow, last night, wires had been crossed, and she seemed to think he was a criminal. _Her_ criminal, and not in a sexy, lock-me-up-I've-been-a-bad-boy scenario.

She had a cop, a well-known _local_ cop, handcuffed to her left wrist. He was still wearing what was obviously, to anyone with a modicum of deductive skill, last night's clothing. And he might have mentioned to Ironhide and Chromia his _legal_ plans for last night (omitting the I-have-a-potential-lead part that became the mentioned fucking-hell-but-I-_have_-to-pull-her when the lead fell through, that they probably expected to hear stories about this morning)- plans that had gone _swimmingly_, right up until he woke up in the aforementioned handcuffs and realised she wasn't just kinking it up a bit.

Hell. They'd never let him live this down. It would be all over the precinct by lunch, and if it took that long it was a slow news day.

What was the best bit of all? She was so obviously heading to _his _station; it was the only one within thirty minutes' drive of this location. And although he'd slept through most of yesterday's personnel briefing, he _had_ perked up when Prime mentioned that his new partner, transferred out of the Met, was now paperwork official and starting tomorrow- _today_.

Jazz didn't believe in coincidences.

He did, however, believe in karma and the justice of laughing one's arse off when his new partner made an absolute prat of herself in front of her new colleagues- bright and early in the morning of her first day.

Let it not be said he wasn't a gentleman; he did _try _to warn her. Prowl had thrown open the passenger door on her car, shimmied across and over the gearstick (he had to wonder if she was doing it on purpose by this point- that move was _way_ sexier than it had any right to be) and dragged him in after her so they were settled in the front seats as though the handcuffs were a figment of his imagination.

He should be so lucky.

... Actually, it wasn't the handcuffs he objected to.

He slammed the door shut behind him and hoped it closed the lid on that train of thought also. Prowl had made things perfectly clear; she was a professional. He would wager a guess that she didn't encourage even _friendships_ between partners if she could help it. There would be no repeats of last night, guaranteed as soon as they turned up at the station and she realised exactly who, in her error, she'd handcuffed herself to.

It wasn't all bad. She couldn't stop him looking.

Jazz sighed, wound down the window to let in the cool morning air and gave it one last go.

"I _am_ a cop, yanno. Detective Inspector, same as ya. All this stunt's gonna do's create a whole barrel o' laughs on ya firs' day at the station. That really what ya want?"

They were driving by this point. Prowl's response was to calmly pull over, pull out her gun, and pull the trigger.

"_Jesus_ woman!"

The bullet went straight out of the open window, roughly three inches from his left eye. "Ya tryin' ta kill me?"

She glared levelly at him- the glare all cops developed, which stated bluntly: 'I am unimpressed with your bullshit. You are in the cuffs and on my last nerve. See this? This is me being nice. Continue to fuck with me, and we can play bad cop too.'

Jazz had never realised how annoying it was to be on the receiving end of one of those glares. But still- she hadn't put the gun away yet, so he put up and shut up- literally. His hands rose, dragging her left one with it, until they were level with his ears. "I surrender, 'kay?" The gun went away, and he dropped his hands back into his lap, muttering, "Don' say I didn' try ta warn ya," in a mutinous undertone.

She stared straight ahead, didn't bother to reply, and put the car back in gear.

* * *

Prowl marched into the station feeling relatively upbeat, all things considered. Her head was still pounding (the gunshot had exacerbated the prominent ache), her left hand was practically immobilised (she was right handed; hardly a great issue) and okay, she felt slightly sheepish over her overreaction in the car, but honestly, too many criminals had tried similar stories for her to lend a shred of credence to this one.

Who did the (attractive, damn it) idiot think he was fooling? He fit every fact known about the criminal she was after; that he'd stayed largely undetected for so long made her wonder whether her luck was that good, or her new team mates that terrible. She prayed for the former as she approached the front desk.

"Detective Inspector Prowl, reporting for duty from London," she stated in a monotone. She had ignored the looks all through the car park, through the door, and she would ignore them here too.

But the secretary didn't even glance at her- eyes wide, her attention was caught by the criminal she'd handcuffed to herself. "I'll need to process him as soon as possible," she added, hoping to start the procedure.

"_Jazz_?"

"'Lo, Arcee," the criminal replied with a half-hearted wave. Prowl raised an eyebrow and reassessed the secretary as a potential source of information. How well did she know the criminal?

"What- what _happened?_"

"Jazz?" Another worker popped up from behind a workspace divider to find the source of the growing commotion. He smirked as he took in the situation. "Good night, I take it?"

_Christ, how well known _is_ this criminal? Is the whole station on friendly terms with him?_

"Fucking hell. If this is some weird sex fetish for you, I didn't want to know about it."

She turned swiftly to the side as a new voice made itself known in the most disrespectful way possible. Another man: tall, solid, carrying at least three guns that she could see (and she was willing to bet he had another two concealed beneath his clothing).

"Mornin', Ironhide," Jazz replied tiredly. "Ya would not _believe_ the wake-up call I got."

Her attention returned to the criminal as he implied far more about their personal interactions than she was willing to have made known. "Quiet," she hissed in an undertone. Quickly, she looked back to the newcomer, taking in his appearance at a glance and guessing he was the same rank as her. "DI Ironhide, was it? Where do you process criminals for interview and holding?"

The man stared blankly at her until she thought she'd have to restate her question. Then he burst out laughing, and she couldn't work out what exactly was so funny about the situation. "Was my inquiry amusing?" she asked coolly, expecting an apology at the very least. Ironhide, however, only laughed harder, needing to lean on the wall to keep upright.

Like a ripple spreading, chuckles and giggling began to permeate all corners of the open-plan workspace. The secretary (_Arcee_, she remembered) first, then the interested worker, his partner, the standing staff and onwards until the whole room was at least smirking at the handcuffed pair.

A horrifying possibility crossed Prowl's mind. Humiliation making its way through in every muscle, she turned back to face a now grinning Jazz.

"Worked it out, did ya?" he said. He lifted his right hand like he was holding a trophy and shook it out, making sure the cuff gained everybody's attention.

Prowl hated every moment of this, but had to ask. Battered pride made her temper flare.

"You weren't fucking joking, were you?"

"Nope." He popped the 'p', satisfaction in every phoneme. "Way ta make a first impression," his grin broadened, and she could only speculate on what worse news there was to come, "_partner_."

The penny dropped. Prowl stood there gaping for a few seconds, not quite willing to believe it.

"Uh, ma'am? Detective Inspector?" Arcee was trying to get her attention. The secretary had made a truly inspiring attempt, but the smile was present on her lips no matter how hard she bit down on them. "Your transfer papers, and uh, new partner's information." The sheets sealing her doom were pushed across the shiny desk.

Prowl only had to scan them to ascertain, beyond all (hope) shadow of a doubt that she had single-handedly and irreversibly destroyed any good reputation that may have preceded her. She summarised the situation in three succinct words, well aware that Jazz had burst into guffaws next to her.

"_Holy_ fucking _hell_."

* * *

Jazz figured he should just accept that it was going to be one of those mornings. So he put up with each and every stare as he was all but kicked _through_ his car door, Prowl doing another sexy-shimmy thing over the handbrake and passenger seat to follow him out. Tactfully tearing his gaze away from her legs, he observed the car park and immediately spotted Blaster, a good friend who was also possibly the biggest gossip in the station- part and parcel of being a translator and interrogator, he insisted.

Oh, _hell_. The man was staring straight at them, unholy glee clear as day on his face. Jazz coming into work in handcuffs would be all over the station within twenty minutes.

Prowl had either the pride of a commissioner or shoulders of steel, to be avoiding and ignoring every stare so effectively. Glancing at her again, he amended his thoughts and supposed it might be both.

He resigned himself to the situation when she marched straight up to the front desk, in front of many of his colleagues, and declared her intentions to all, sundry, and a very surprised looking Arcee. He waved and tried to grasp the humour of the occasion.

Then Ironhide made his entrance, and his comment had been so close to Jazz's initial interpretations of the Handcuffs (the capital letter was, in his mind at least, wholly deserved), that he decided to hell with it and instead of just resigning himself to the situation, he was going to make it as uncomfortable as possible for his new partner.

He knew exactly when Ironhide clocked on to the truth of the matter. The laughter proved infectious; Jazz started grinning himself.

Similarly, he recognised the sudden tension in his partner's body as the indication that she'd finally realised a few unwelcome truths. Granting her no mercy (maybe feeling a little bitter about their morning) he showed off the Handcuffs in pride, knowing she'd hate every second as much as he was grudgingly coming to enjoy them. For all his pre-meditated stunts, he'd never managed something quite as spectacular as _this_ before.

He heard her hiss at him, "You weren't fucking joking, were you?"

"Nope," he answered, satisfied as he'd been last night before waking up in the Handcuffs. Then he _really_ knew. Knew exactly what would be the crowning achievement on the colossal fuck up that was her first day at the office. He leant in close, but announced to the whole room, "Way ta make a first impression, _partner_."

Her expression was one for the books, Jazz decided. Not that it was unattractive, but he doubted she'd ever looked so gobsmacked before. He was proud to be the one to make such a reputedly collected officer lose it (her merits, as discussed in the briefing yesterday, had made up a bright, long list; he was taking full pleasure in being instrumental in the destruction of that legend).

Arcee, bless her, was the final nail in the coffin. Prowl barely looked at the papers before muttering, more to herself than the room, "Holy fucking hell."

Jazz broke down, laughing with the rest of the room. It was too much.

And it was of course, the moment their DCI decided to enter the room.

* * *

"Ya _lost_ the fuckin' keys?"

"Jazz, be quiet." Optimus's tone brooked no argument with either inspector. They fell silent, allowing an all too brief peace to reign in the office.

His long-term DI broke it with a whine. "But sir, ya heard her! She's lost the-"

"Detective Inspector, if you repeat yourself one more time I will be forced to kill you," Prowl stated. She turned to her new DCI. "And sir, as a hypothetical situation that _cannot_ be taken as an admission of guilt for when his body inevitably turns up in pieces."

"Noted," the DCI replied. And damn it, but much like the initial observers, he couldn't hide his amusement at their predicament. Jazz had been grinning during the order to get into his office, grinning as his horrifically embarrassed partner explained the situation in mutters and no few curses, grinning right up until Optimus stated the quickest way to resolve the issue was for her to unlock the handcuffs, and she'd stuttered out, shame in every syllable, that she'd maybe-probably left the keys back at her house.

_Then_ he'd lost all previous humour.

"Ya lost the fuckin' keys?"

"I did not lose them," she'd retorted icily. "I just left them on my table at house. I know exactly where they are; I haven't _lost _them."

"Ya _lost_ the fuckin' keys?" he'd repeated, and the conversation devolved from there.

"Both of you, quiet," Optimus ordered. "I'll have a metal worker called up by lunchtime; you can be detached from each other then."

"Lunchtime?" Prowl exclaimed. "Sir, I could drive us to my house and back within forty five minutes. Waiting four hours to detach us-"

"Would be both a suitable punishment and a deterrent from acting so recklessly in the future, I would think," Optimus answered shortly. "I don't know what your superiors in London allowed you to get away with, Detective Inspector, but in Manchester you answer to me and I won't have you hare off after leads without backup, reliable intel or any real plan." Rebuke finished, he continued in a more friendly tone of voice. "I have heard glowing reports of your analytical and tactical talents in the field; I did not expect this from our first face-to-face meeting."

"The surprise is mutual, sir," she said drily. "And I won't make such a mistake again," she half-heartedly added.

Optimus stared her down, hearing between the lines what she had and hadn't agreed to, and decided that with _Jazz_ as her partner, it was probably better not to have her make promises she probably wouldn't be able to keep.

"Understood," he replied, before addressing the two of them. "Now, get out of my office and get to work as best as you can on the case that caused this morning's mistake." He knew full well there was more he hadn't been told to the story; it didn't take a genius to see they'd spent this morning and, if Jazz's clothes were any indication, much of the previous night together. There were no concrete rules against such relationships between partners, so if they didn't tell, he wouldn't ask.

It didn't stop him saying, voice full of mirth, "Welcome to Manchester, Prowl," as the two left the room, and wondering just how interesting the next few years were going to be as a result of them working together.

* * *

Jazz elbowed her again as he shifted to reach a new sheet.

"To _hell_ with this," she growled, pulling back as far as possible and glaring at him. "Pass me a paperclip."

"I don' answer ta ya, Miss Incompetent," he growled back, returning to his paperwork.

"DI Jazz," she bit out. "Pass me a fucking paperclip."

Damn it, but her accent was even nicer when she was annoyed. He looked forward to it being a somewhat frequent occurrence during their working hours together. To stop her speaking, and distracting him any further, he stretched out his left hand to the stationary jar and selected a single paperclip from its depths. He placed it gently on the pre-declared border between their workspaces, muttering as she snatched it up quickly enough to just miss scoring his hand with her nails.

"At least I didn' make ya say please, ya ungrateful bitch."

But his attention was distracted anyway when instead of using a paperclip to, for example, clip papers together, she unwound it then carefully bent it back into a specific shape.

"No fuckin' way," he breathed. "Sure, a hairclip I get, but a _paper_clip..?"

Resolutely ignoring him, she stuck the twisted end into the Cuffs' keyhole and fiddled it for approximately seven seconds. With a clunk that sounded loud in his befuddled silence, she detached her Handcuff and stretched her newly-freed arms over her head.

"Much better." She passed him back the now useless paperclip, and moved to what was her _actual_ side of the desk. Without apparently noticing anything amiss, she pulled over her paperwork and started writing again in a visibly better mood.

Jazz coughed.

She carried on writing.

Jazz coughed slightly louder. "A_hem_."

She smirked, but continued her sentence.

"A-fuckin'-_hem_."

"Something the matter?" She looked up at his unimpressed face and down at the paperclip in his left hand. "Too fiddly for you, DI Jazz?" She smirked wickedly, "But I forget, you aren't the most skilled with your hands, are you?"

"That's _it_!" Indignant beyond belief (he knew _damned well _she had enjoyed last night as much as him) Jazz shot to his feet and pointed at her, spare Cuff dangling from his wrist. "Car park, _now_."

She was unfazed. "I have work to be doing, DI Jazz, and I'll probably find it more stimulating than your poorly concealed offer."

"Dude, _burn_."

She glanced at the newcomer before dismissing any interest he might hold for her.

"Blaster," Jazz managed a somewhat even tone; it wasn't his friend he was pissed at. "What brings ya here?"

"Nothing really," the interrogator replied. "Just a few interesting titbits for you: Arcee told Springer and Hot Rod that you've turned into some new girl's love slave; the whole SWAT team now think you're some sort of pussy. Optimus hasn't looked so pleased with my morning report since the last time Elita was in town, and Ironhide was overheard telling a surprisingly accurate version of events to a cackling Chromia. Guaranteed the whole precinct will know by eleven."

"Two hours?" Prowl muttered, proving she was listening. "Your gossips _do_ work slowly, don't they?"

Blaster grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I see you have your work cut out for you, Jazz." With a conspirator's smile, he leant in. "Also, Skywarp finally cracked around oneish this morning. That crime syndicate you're looking for? We now have a name- _Starscream_."

Jazz blinked slowly, digesting the words. Blaster winked and sauntered away, smugness in every step. He turned to his partner, wondering at the convenience of having a new break in a _very_ long case on her first morning on duty.

She looked as buzzed as he, until she glared. "Pass me the paperclip," she ordered him again.

"Excuse me?" He couldn't follow her train of logic. They had a _name_ now, what did she want a god damned paperclip for?

"Pass me the fucking paperclip," she insisted, leaning over the desk and stealing it from his hand. His Cuff was unlocked before he could protest. He was stunned speechless as she threw on her jacket, speaking all the while.

"I know a girl who has a brother who might know of a Starscream." With a coolly assessing look on her face, an outsider wouldn't believe she might have just started the beginning of the end of the largest crime syndicate England had seen since the 1800s. "I can't have my partner turning up in handcuffs; it might give the wrong impression." Pulling her hair out from under her collar, she shot him the faintest shadow of a grin as she checked her gun harness by touch alone. "Coming, partner?"

Jazz stared at her with a trace of awe in his eyes. Her grin grew.

_That_ got him moving. With an expression to match hers, he grabbed his gun from his drawer and smoothly stuffed it down the back of his jeans.

So he'd had a fucking awful wake up call, an interesting first impression, and a minor dressing down from his superior officer. It wasn't even midday yet. He was still wearing last night's clothes, and he hadn't been granted the luxury of a shower that morning.

With the grin on his face matching hers, nobody would have believed it. "Ready when ya're, darlin'."

"Don't call me that," she shot back easily. They fell into a heavy bickering session as they passed the front desk, and got back in her car.

"I have ta ask," was the last opening heard by those working at the door. "Why a _Nissan_?"

"Speed and torque," was the sharp reply. "Gets around the Nürburgring faster than a Porsche GT3." She laughed at the crestfallen look on his face. "Tell me you don't."

"That record is a fuckin' lie perpertuated by the jealous makers o' ya crappy li'l Datsun." His frown was ridiculously cute.

"Poor baby," she said. "Now get in the fucking _Nissan_."

They heard the car doors slam, heard a smooth engine peel away, and exchanged a wealth of glances. Blaster, in the thick of it as always, broke the silence.

"They're either a match made in heaven, or an unholy union of hell's finest." His expression turned devious. "Bets, anyone?"

* * *

Three years on, and Prowl could just about look back and smile at the Incident. Her reputation was re-secured as she and Jazz quickly became one of the most effective partnerships in the station, so she couldn't even hold _that_ against him. And as he'd stated frequently on The Morning, he _had_ tried to warn her.

It didn't stop their first six months together from being occasionally uncomfortable. It wasn't until he'd backed her up on another particularly hair-brained scheme- one that had a good chance of injuring them and a better one of costing their jobs- that she began to talk _with_ him rather than just bicker, and their friendship gradually formed from there. The scheme had fallen through, but the costs had been luckily minimal, and the benefits, Prowl felt, were still growing.

Neither of them had forgotten the first night between them. It was in every look from him, every pointed comment from her and in every part of the working relationship that flowed so well between them. The easy give-and-take had been severely threatened on the anniversary of her arrival, when as a gag gift Ironhide had managed to subdue Jazz and handcuff him to her desk leg right before their shift together started.

What was worse was that the handcuffs in question had been fluffy, and in a scene reminiscent of the first occasion she'd had to pick the lock to free her partner.

It had taken another week before she believed Jazz hadn't willingly been in on the joke. She had doubted because she knew just how hard a bastard he was to take down from their experiences together in the field.

The next year, _she'd _been the one jumped and handcuffed to the desk, and finally saw his point of view on the whole thing.

Jazz, the _bastard_, had taken advantage of her immobility and swept her into a blinding kiss before she could even get a word out. She'd kicked his knee, then his stomach as he'd doubled over, and stated, deadly serious, that unless he uncuffed her or got her a fucking paperclip so she could do it herself, _that_ would be the last touch between them.

Even as he hurriedly produced a key (given to him by a smirking Ironhide, who may have had some idea what Jazz had planned to do if and when the situation arose) he retorted that she wouldn't deprive herself of him for long.

The rest of the station, watching avidly for the Annual Jazz/Prowl Verbal Dust Up (so named by Chromia, who had a similar arrangement with Ironhide, for all it worked on a quarterly basis instead), were disappointed and shocked when she simply agreed with the addendum that it was only because _his_ begging would drive her to insanity before she felt any real signs of withdrawal.

None were so shocked as Jazz when with a smirk and a promise, Prowl pocketed the fluffy handcuffs for use later that night- it was, after all, a special occasion, and she wanted to celebrate their anniversary properly.

* * *

Oh god, I am (not) sorry.

For the record, all of these oneshots are in the process of being edited- they're all on my laptop; now it's just a matter of uploading them. Some haven't changed a lot (mostly the last few) but some of the earlier ones- particularly the ones from Transfictions- have been extended or otherwise changed (hopefully) for the better.

Re-check them out if you fancy?

Okay, now I'm out. Until next time.


End file.
